“I have to go harass your dad.” He rose from the table and patted my shoulder, which was his way of saying we were good. I slipped my hand onto his. “Harass him some for me, will you?” After a soft squeeze, Uncle Bob strolled over to the bar, claiming— loudly—to be an investigator from the CDC. I cringed. Dad found few things less humorous than the thought of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention paying him a visit. It lay somewhere between an IRS audit and a class action lawsuit.
