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83 You’re Fine He lay on his back blinking at stars. I told him to get up, stand up. I helped him a little roughly. You’re fine, I said, it’s a straight shot home for you. Keep the wheels forward. His head lolled and I could see gray stubble punching through cheeks. He just stood there, rocking on the ocean of his excess. I slapped him twice—backhand, forehand, not too hard. Like I was taught. The shock snapped him out of it, partly. I picked up his glasses off the grass, hooked the key ring over his finger, propelled him toward the Oldsmobile. He went lurching. Red lights engaged and, slowly, he drove away nearly inside the lines. I watched him go. Killed the lamp, bolted the door, hoped the phone wouldn’t ring. A son can only do so much. ...

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