My ears refuse to pop. Everything sounds flat. I hope this bit from the unnamed fiction WIP came out.
Every three years, Dad paid cash for a brand-new Chevy C/K pickup with all the features. AM/FM/cassette stereo, rip-resistant seats, and the classic GM cruise control that worked perfectly on straight dry roads. Even air conditioning, although using AC was for pansies. A truck birthed to haul sheets of plywood or a small fishing boat, except Dad had people to haul anything and the creek needed boots not boats. Dad didn’t allow anyone to eat or drink in his truck, but sometimes when he’d taken young Will out to the barrens to look for lizards and rocks they’d end the day with a trip to the drive-in for the slopburgers bigger than Will’s hands could hold, with ketchup and pickles and the thick tomato slices that slid out the back. Always right before trading the truck in, sure, but Will’s bones had burned with privilege and trust.
Being allowed to eat slopburgers in Dad’s shiny new truck is the highest of privileges.