"What the hell kind of friends do you have? I’m paying twenty thousand dollars a year to send you to that private Catholic prep school, and I will not allow trash to come into my house whether literally or via social media."
Mostly, Harry sits in a straight back chair by his bed and stares out the window. His mind replays scenes of earlier times: trips to the lake cabin with the children, and square-dances on Saturday to bluegrass tunes by The Dillards and others.
After I paid my co-pay and got my prescription refill, I navigated the Walgreens parking lot, like a bumper car ride at the fair. The car radio was on an oldies station.