He’s been locked in his body for 20 years.
His father pumps food into the side of his chest, like he is priming a motor.
But his engine will never fire. He’s on idle, dead to the world but very much alive.
He gurgles a few sounds and saliva bubbles around the corners of his mouth. He makes a sound, and a few bubbles pop. A thin line of spit splits his left cheek.
His father takes out the spent syringe, then pierces in another.
He says that he doesn’t mind that his son is the way he is. He doesn’t care that he will never have a job he can be proud of him for and brag to his friends about.
He doesn’t mind that he will never give him a grandson to bounce on his knee after Thanksgiving dinner and teach to hit a baseball at the elementary school down the street.
Yes he does.
Lines from two snowmobiles slice through the backyard, cutting through the sun-drenched snowscape.
He takes out the spent syringe and pierces in another.
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