One night, he called my brother instead of me. “Commere, little Chris,” he said, slurring his words. My brother was too small to mistrust him. Stupid kid. He went closer, and my father grabbed him. Set him on his knee. It looked so harmless. Just a brainless, smiling toddler, sitting on daddy’s lap. He sat there a few minutes and nothing happened. I relaxed a little. Snort was smiling. Then daddy reached down and mashed his cigarette out. In the middle of Snort’s forehead. My little brother screamed.
