Dad called at six a.m. It was still dark outside, so I assumed someone had died. Why else would he call me? It seemed he was on his way from British Columbia to Raleigh and was at O’Hare, laid over between flights. In Canada he’d fished for steelhead trout. He caught five big ones in ten days, but his main haul was stones, which are his new thing. In his suitcase were two twenty-five-pounders, one that he says resembles a human head and another that looks like a fish. While there he saw an eagle swoop down and snatch a beaver off the banks of a pond. I loved the wonder in his voice when he
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