"Are you goin' huntin'?"
"I was just...No."
"What're you gettin' the rifle for?"
He paused. "Cleanin'." He grabbed the door of the cabinet, his fingertips staining the beveled glass. He held it open and moved as if to close it, then paused again, remembering the confrontation; his stomach fluttered with the raw anger that had caused him to vomit in the church vestibule not an hour earlier. "You should be in bed."
"I feel better."
"You don't look no better."
They watched each other across the expanse of living room, though neither moved.
The chill of the cold wood floor traveled through the soles of Frank's stockinged feet, his toes turned partially inward, the pose indicating all the shyness he would never outgrow.
"Go."
"Go where?"
"Back to bed."
Frank watched his father's hand still lingering on the case, his hand gliding up and down the length of the veneer as if feeling for a ridge, some small imperfection. But the case didn't close.
"Are you..." Frank started, his eyes like the setting sun slowly dropping from his father's hand to the floor and tracing a single two-inch plank its entire length to his own feet.
Dad swung quickly away from the case, leaving it open. Frank rocked back on his heels then fully off his feet as his father swooped past him, grabbing his arm and yanking him, his body resisting but relenting.
