THE FOURTH WEDNESDAY
It was the fourth Wednesday of November, and Patrick Guthrie was giving thanks.
Tomorrow there would be no turkey, no cranberry sauce on the side, no dry stuffing to somehow strategically hide under a drumstick so as to not offend the chef. Tonight there was only a slice of pumpkin pie sitting on his son’s hospital tray along with a single can of ginger ale, the pop that Patrick and his ten-year-old son, Braden, shared.
“But it’s not ‘pop,’ Pop,” Braden said as he grinned. “It’s a ‘soda.’ You’ve lived in Manhattan for, like,...