Twenty years of an Armani-suit advertising career and now Anna can’t write a brochure. Her pages are gibberish. Scattered sentences almost touch on the subject then wander off to drool at the night sky. Her mind has stepped into a canyon, paused to look at her and say, Whoops, before dropping out of sight, taking with it her livelihood, many of her friends, and a good portion of her memory. Now her days go by without consulting her.
She’s decided to ask her son for advice. Her son, the ADD kid who once punched his way through a door; who later paraglided into war-torn countries, grew his unwashed hair into dreadlocks, and killed the animals he ate with a bow and arrow. He could make a mean fried venison.
