“My father spoke with his hands. He was deaf. His voice was in his hands. And his hands contained his memories.”

“Oh  .  .  . wow  .  .  . I don’t know what to say. I want to thank  .  .  .” His voice broke and the tears in my eyes rolled down my cheeks. Bringing the back of his hand to his mouth, Kellan stopped talking. Shaking his head again, he slowly lowered his hand. “I’m sorry.” His voice warbled with barely contained emotion. “My wife just told me she’s pregnant.”

“Graham runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. Finally, with a determined scowl, he crosses the room. His hands grip my shoulders. “We are not,” his voice is a gentle tremor, “breaking up”

“He who works with his hands is a laborer.He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman.He who works with his hands and his head and his heart is an artist.”

“I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.I aim with my eye.I do not shoot with my hand; he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.I shoot with my mind.I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father.I kill with my heart.”

“He raised his bony fingers as if to touch me and I steeled myself not to flinch as his hand, still smoldering, neared my face.He rattled and spoke his last words. "Worth...the...fall.”