"Lanie," he said, as he sat me down. "You're a smart girl, I know that.
You wouldn't know where your old Da could get a printer and some goop?"
I squeezed my hands into fists so tight my fingernails cut into my
palms. I closed my eyes. "You've been in prison for ten years, Da.
Ten. Years. You're going to risk another ten years to print out more
blenders and pharma, more laptops and designer hats?"
He grinned. "I'm not stupid, Lanie. I've learned my lesson. There's
no hat or laptop that's worth going to jail for. I'm not going to print
none of that rubbish, never again." He had a cup of tea, and he drank it
now like it was whisky, a sip and then a long, satisfied exhalation. He
closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
"Come here, Lanie, let me whisper in your ear. Let me tell you the
thing that I decided while I spent ten years in lockup. Come here and
listen to your stupid Da."
I felt a guilty pang about ticking him off. He was off his rocker, that
much was clear. God knew what he went through in prison. "What, Da?" I
said, leaning in close.
"Lanie, I'm going to print more printers.
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