Makes appearances in the neighborhood every now and then. Rings a grade-school shelter drill klaxon affixed to the side view mirror. Parks the truck, turns on a gasoline generator inside almost as loud as the engine. “Not a bad way to make a living,” my dad says, although his hands are bandaged and he wears a respirator. The truck’s registration says it’s a ‘98 Ford, but my dad thinks it’s older. Bob makes forty bucks off us in a half hour. Our kitchen block and pruning shears are good as new.