“Happy birthday, Dad.”

“Thank you, Grahame. You didn’t get me another Salad Shooter, did you?”

“No.”

“That’s the only thing I wanted this year: to not get a Salad Shooter.”

“That was one year when I was eleven and you’ve been talking about it ever since.”

“You looked so proud when I opened it.”

“Please can we not–”

“Right after that was when you started seeing that therapist.”

“I was perfectly fine.”

“No, you weren’t. Your choice of gift proved it. Salad Shooter. I’m a Rock Star, for fuck’s sake. I don’t prepare my own food.”

“I just want you to have a happy–”

“Go get Daddy one of those Starbucks things.”

“Which one?”

“The one I like. With the pumpkin bullshit in it.”

“They only have that in the fall.”

“Make ’em check in the back. Pumpkin bullshit for Daddy, boy.”

“Okay, Pop.”