“The Barters of Nighttime Company” by David Levinson

My father called one spring night from Brooklyn and said, “Anatole, you up for a drive?” I hadn't spoken to him in over twelve years. I thought it was a prank and hung up. He called back, repeated the question. “Nothing urgent,” he added. “Aw, well, that's a lie. Put a fork in me; I'm dying.” And in between the silences, my chest moved, and I broke.

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