Before the oven broke in a decisive way, my sister was telling me a story about the Knights of Columbus and a bag of bones. It was the night before Thanksgiving. We were tending to a spaghetti dinner for eight on the stovetop. Garlic bread shimmered with butter in the oven’s light. The deer hunt had opened the previous weekend, and the four hunters in the family had downed two doe. No antlers, poorly shot, and who had killed which was contested.
