"What's taking you so long, dad?"

I'm eight, and we are on a fishing trip, and I'm having a terrible time. My father is attempting to set up our antique tent and making a great mess of things. He is not the type to keep particularly organized. Perhaps it was he who passed that onto me.

"This goddamn rod is bent all to shit," he grumbles. He always used to curse when he was irritated, which was often. I always knew to steer clear of him in those moments or he would find some arbitrary task for me to do so that I wouldn't bother him. In this case, I decided to take a walk into the woods, and I told him so.

"Alright, but don't go too far. If you get lost, just shout and I will come find you."

"o-K, DAD," I sarcastically replied.

I wasn't even twenty meters into the woods when I found a fresh mound of soil, and even at eight I figured someone must have buried something there. Maybe a treasure, I thought excitedly. On hands and knees I dug and shuffled dirt until I discovered