Antique Bastards

Prologue

My father wasn’t the type to get ruffled. He kept his faith simple. He didn’t swear, didn’t brood, didn’t drift backward. He was a Sunday sermon on Thursday.

He was maybe eighty-five, staying at my place in metro Atlanta. As he passed the full-length mirror by the downstairs bathroom, he stopped cold, stared as if his reflection might speak to him.

After …