Welcome to Wrabbit.
I pulled a chair up to my wife's white oak table, the kind we had to keep coasters on so that we didn't wreck it. In the center was an pentagon-shaped black device, made of hard plastic, black, with no markings except for embossed type: PRO-TONIC IND.
"Hey bud," I said.
It was a Tuesday.
That's... all I can really say about that particular day, really. It was the week before school started, and when you're a teenager in the boondocks, and the only car you could take when your dad wasn't looking had a flat tire that might never be fixed, and the satellite TV was flickering with low thunder rumbles, there's really, truly, not a dumb thing to do.