For the rest of the week, my dad and I had to work out a truce on how we would tolerate each other without trying to kill the other.
It was a difficult task because his eyes were always boring holes into my skin, his voice clipped and harsh, and it was difficult trying to think with such weight on your back.
But there was nothing I couldn’t make work.
I followed him around as he showed me how things worked, explaining things I didn’t understand. I knew it was difficult for him—the way his fist seemed to tighten as he talked or the creases that were etched deeply in his forehead.
But he did his best to tell me everything he knew that would help the handover go smoothly, and I had it to commend him; he did a good job.
Well, he had to, else the pack would be in shaky hands.
But those 6
