“How do you deal with him every day? He’s . . . insufferable.” That’s Simon’s favorite word. Wait until I tell him I used it in a sentence. “Who, Jonah?” Dad wanders over to the far side of the porch, to peer at the butter-yellow house, out of my view. “I still remember the day he showed up at Wild ten years ago. He was this skinny twenty-one-year-old kid from Vegas, full of piss and vinegar and desperate to fly planes. Damn good at it, too.” That would make Jonah thirty-one, and only five years older than me. “He said he grew up in Anchorage.” “He did. He resented his dad for taking them
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