My father called and told me he needed to talk to me about something. He said it was important and couldn’t wait. I needed to come over right away. “What is it,” I asked, once we were finally alone in his basement man-cave. He poured two glasses of scotch halfway to the brim, then added a bit more for good measure. He handed me one of the glasses and I took it, eyeing him suspiciously. “I don’t drink,” I reminded him. “Trust me, you’ll want that.”
