We sat on the splintered floor, where the blast had tossed us, staring out the missing wall towards my neighbor’s house. “So surreal,” I recall myself thinking as Butch quipped, “You always wanted a picture window there, didn’t ya?”

“No. What I wanted was to get my new diesel generator hooked up to my home’s electrical system before the next winter storm,” I answered.

The night before we sat on bar stool’s across from each other. Me, bragging about how little I had paid for the 800-pound behemoth and Butch about being a master-electrician.

“It’s easy-peasy,” I recall him laughing.


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