Nathanael is sitting next to me on the loveseat in his living room. It's Friday night in Kansas.
"I want you to guess."
He grins and clasps his hands together with glee.
"Oh, he knows cars," his mom offers from a nearby easy chair.
Nathanael is slowly rocking back and forth, with one arm loosely draped across his lap and the other bent, propping up his chin. Like Rodin's Thinker with ADHD.
"I'll give you a hint. It's a domestic."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the car was made by a company that's based in the United States."
"A Chevro-ro-lay?"
"Close."
I sign the letter "c."
He ponders.
"Carlson?"
"Carlson?"
"Carlson."
"Carlson? I don't know a Carlson car company. You're teasing me!"
He throws his head back and laughs.
He's stumped.
"I'll give you another hint. It's a Chrysler."
"I said that!"
"No you didn't; you said Karl-son. Not Cries-ler."
His indignation is fleeting.
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