My father was in one of his moods. Arms crossed, he sat in the front seat glaring at us through the windshield.
“Why is Grandpa mad?” Buddy asked. “Doesn’t he like camping?”
“Obviously not,” Cliff said.
“Why’d we bring him then?”
I looked at Cliff. “He can’t stay alone, Bud. You know that.”
“Because he’s getting senile,” said Cliff. He tapped his temple. “Hardening of the arteries.”
“Daddy’s exaggerating,” I said. “Grandpa will come around soon. He’s just tired.”
Cliff snorted and began to set up the Coleman stove.
Buddy looked at his father, then my father, then back.