Three times a week, Grandfather Chen would ferry the both of us in his enormous liability-ridden Cutlass Supreme–painted a lavish maroon, the interior laden with mountains of bundled newspapers that left the white leather permanently besmeared with ink residue–to the practice diamonds near Houston Baptist University, where I would be dropped off, smelling of fresh…

Afterwards, Amir set up shop in the East Wing Conference Room, and one by one, we were called by Mrs. Weed to enter in for our own personal Q&A.  I admit, his unsettling presence served to revive my interest in work, ever so slightly.  After five years at the premier weekly classifieds paper in the…