5.	the next time jonathan shoots his father in the shoulder
	I worry I will have to be the one to find him in his usual booth at Steak & Shake, smoking Vantage cigarettes for speed and exhaling against the black gloss side of the booth. I worry I will have to drag my feet across the dirty white tile as quietly as possible and place one hand on his shoulder, sore from recoil, and say, Dude. Your father. In the hospital. I worry I will have to say something else, something better in that silence before he says Watch this, I can finish a cigarette in 45 seconds now, while lighting himself a fresh Vantage. I worry I will have to convince him that he shouldn't have dropped the shotgun, still hot, shook his head and calmly backed away, grabbed the keys to the Volvo, and left. But when the police come in, having followed me, Jonathan will have just started reading that same story he always read, about the angry waiter, and I will want to ask them to not take him yet.
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