“I should’ve insisted on you going to the fire temple with me more often,” he’d once said, sitting in Remy’s kitchen in Columbus. “It’s my fault, for letting you move to America without giving you an ironclad faith.” “What difference does it make, Dad?” Remy had said. “I try to be a good person.” “You are,” Cyrus had said. “You are good. But, son, faith is like an armor. It’s for your own protection. This world can be an unforgiving place. Faith helps a man from getting buffeted around.” Be better than me, Dad had written to him.
