I Got Home From the Oil Rig Two Weeks Early and Found My Eight-Year-Old Son Cooking Dinner for Strangers—The Messages He Never Sent Explained Everything.
Dwight just shrugged.
“It builds character.
My old man did way worse to me.”
I set Finn on the floor behind me.
Every inch of me wanted to throw Dwight straight through the wall.
But Finn was trembling.
And out on the rig I had learned that the loudest guy in the room is hardly ever the one in charge.
“All right,” I said softly.
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