“Do you often hunt for wood?” I asked innocently. I really tried to keep it together. He didn’t respond, but the silence was telling. “I, myself, appreciate a good piece of wood,” I said. He stopped as we reached the garage and gave me a blank stare. “Not every day does life deliver a fine piece of girthy, hard—” “Are you done?” he asked, the tendons in his neck straining. “It’s impossible to say.” I covered my growing smile with both hands. “I never really meant to start, but the jokes write themselves.”
