Direction

            Before things turned bad, Jason’s father taught him to shave against the grain. The blade might draw blood, but the results were closer.

            Jason’s stepfather shrugged. “With the grain works too.” Stepfathers could be replaced, he knew, so he went easy.

            During this month’s prison visit, Jason’s father slid his son’s hand across his newly smooth skull. “Nobody can grab my hair,” he said. “You should try it.”

            Jason’s stepfather drove him there every month and waited in the parking lot. It was the least he could do since the boy lost his mother in a way no one should.