7MILL CREEK FALLS, 4 September 1969: They had been up since five. Bobby had made coffee, Josh had eaten his first-of-the-day MilkBones. Grandpa was already out to his office in the big barn. Bobby and Josh strolled down the long drive to where a dented mailbox hung askew from a rusting steel post. Wapinski looked in. It was empty. He looked up at the sky. It was mostly clear. “C’mon, boy,” Bobby called Josh. “We’ll head on down toward Lutz’s.”
They meandered far down the road, Josh dashing into various fields, chasing birds or butterflies, Wapinski watching his dog, enjoying Josh’s boundless enthusiasm but not concentrating on him, thinking alternately about options or not about anything but making up silly verses to tunes he’d known since childhood. He’d been offered a job selling cars a
