The uncle had slapped his son across the face, once and twice. You fucking idiot, he’d said. This ain’t the old days. And then his cousin had put his arms up and mumbled: He was supposed to lose, Pa. A hundred yards off, the buck lay on his side, one arrow in his neck, another in his stomach, all of him cold and hard as my brother. Their blood congealing.
Does Joseph wish for the Old Days? This puts perspective on the false nostalgia of signs like a Confederate flag with the words "Heritage, Not Hate" underneath.
