First, the voice of my father. First, the rasping death rattle of his voice calling me. His voice everywhere, surrounding. Each way I turn, his voice equally there, calling my name. Boy, rattled the voice. Boy. I start in each direction to go to him, but I hear the voice everywhere so I stand still. Boy, says the voice, its rattle thinning, hollowing. A thick fogbank rolling in over the water, father's figure rising from it. Father's figure draped...