Wesley McNair

At the end of my stepfather's life when his anger was gone, and the saplings of his failed nursery had grown into trees, my newly feminist mother had him in the kitchen to pay for all those years he only did the carving. "You know where that is," she [...]

Not the four wheels, but clusters of four and six wheels spinning into steel hollows far below the cab. Not a cab, but high, dark windows under a crown of lights and a vast grille displaying its name: Papa Bear, Snow Man, Silver Eagle. Not a truck, b [...]