It turned out to be a good thing the suburban loser’s youngest son still lived at home and never found a job. After the complicated brain surgery didn’t extract as much of the tumor as they hoped, the doctor ordered chemotherapy six times a week, and six times a week the suburban loser’s youngest son grabs the suburban loser and lifts him out of the passenger seat like a sack of potatoes, his arms and legs dangling loose and free, his face blank and patient as he waits for his youngest son to set him down gently into the wheelchair before grabbing a wet wipe to blot out any pee dribbles that may have appeared on his sweatpants during the maneuver. The intense treatments make the suburban loser feel hopeful, and on the drive back home he tells his youngest son everything he needs to know about life. Secrets in business. The type of attitude a man should have to get ahead. Hidden truths about the family. Plans the opposition laid against the suburban loser. Lessons he learned along the way. What it all meant. A few months later, the suburban loser enters hospice care. His family spends their endless evenings on the patio drinking wine and beer. While his eldest son and wife talk and cry, his youngest son keeps to himself and reflects on these heart to hearts. One night, he bursts out and says the suburban loser means more to him than anything else in the world. He repeats some of the business and life lessons the suburban loser passed on to him. They sound just like the bible quotes on the pamphlet the hospital social worker handed them after he was diagnosed.