Hero Lessons

I.
He is coming. The popping-crackle sound of tires on gravel, the soft whir of car engine announces him. It is likely Friday, though in the earlier years it could have been any day, the unpredictability key. I am 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, or almost 17-years old. My stomach drops, fear mingling with dread. The car door slams and a man with a suitcase in one hand walks forcefully across slate patio steps, leather soles smacking: here, here, here.