When I was around twelve, he had begun morphing from a gentle outdoorsman into an angry, paranoid, and gun-obsessed man. First it was Rush Limbaugh’s voice on his car radio, and then my father would parrot how the government was taking his money and giving it to people who didn’t work. Then it was the Guns & Ammo magazine subscription, the National Rifle Association membership, and the shotgun placed under my bed, just in case “we” needed it. Eventually, a target was set up in the yard so he could unload into it bullets from his newly acquired SKS Chinese assault rifle on his days off and
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