English and Slovakian whistled around his only tooth, punctuated by a cough that everyone thought signaled the end of Ivan Evanochick. But it didn't. Ivan Evanochick had already survived all his long-lived grandchildren, and although it was his most fervent wish to die, something kept him alive yet another cursed day to gum his food and shuffle painfully on feet crippled by bunions. Father Slepchuk put his hand over his face and leaned in to hear Ivan Evanochick's weekly deathbed confession. Father Slepchuk asked.
Sons of bitches eat everything.
Father Slepchuk glanced out the back window to the dreary landscape, denuded by strip mining. Even then blackbirds lined the crossbar of Ivan Evanochick's scarecrow, cawing at others who tore at the corn. Ivan Evanochick sighed with the weariness of a man with a boulder in his heart. I didn't give Georgey Gojuk milk. His baby died.