I was working furiously on a coloring-book Earth while my father fried biscuit-donuts and side-pork crackles across the room.

At the time I tended to ponder notions of Heaven and Hell more than I should have, given my pedigree. Indeed I had little reason to accept either as anything less than metaphysical certitude.

Hell was buried somewhere on page 23. Heaven was probably just beyond the table’s edge.

“Dad,” I paused, “how far would I have to dig to get to Hell?”
“I guess that depends on how deep of a hole you’re in to start with.” he answered without even looking up from the stove.

I hated it when he pulled that shit.