“What do you think is the dividing line between good and bad?” He looks at me, his expression serious. “What do you think makes someone worthy of friendship . . . or worthy of death?” He sees me hesitate, lips parted. “I’m not trying to trick you,” he says. “I’m not asking about your father. I just want to know—what’s the line?” I wonder that myself. When I picture the people I know and love—my friends at school, my father’s men, and my dad himself—I can’t create a consistent schema for judgment. They all have their flaws. They all make mistakes. When I ponder what’s “right” and what’s
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