I preferred my friend’s father. Mine sat silent in cigar smoke, suave in a cheap suit. Hers, a suburban cowboy, weather-worn in plaid flannel, loud with love. “Aw, girl,” he’d say when I visited, patting my cheek, “you’re so darn cute.” On warm evenings, he’d walk with my friend, head bent to listen, one hand holding their mutt’s leash, the other hand around hers. Around 6 pm each night, I’d listen for his truck, then part the bedroom curtains to watch its slow descent. The truck made happy music–a jangle of rusted lawn mowers and car parts, watering cans and bits of bicycles. My affection for him changed one night, though, when instead of odds and ends, a huge buck, eyes paralyzed in surprise, antlers shocked with blood filled the truck’s bed. I didn’t want to believe that he had killed the animal. Or walked to the swing set and unhooked the swings. Or, joined by three neighborhood men who patted him on the back like a hero, hung the deer from its hooves like a desecrated god.