“Dad? I’m writing . . . well, I’m writing a book about you.” “Hahahaha!” he says, throwing back his half-cherubic, half-satyric head. His angel and his demon aren’t even posted on opposite shoulders. They’re standing on top of his neck, making out. “Hahahaha. I’ll murder you.” “Don’t say you’re going to murder her!” my mother calls out. “Not nurturing.”
