Every time my dad came home from a convention, he’d bring all kinds of neat stuff.
Keychains, flashlights, strange decks of cards, and other things.
One year, he came home with a frisbee-sized foam-rubber nickel.
“It’s a flying nickel,” he said. “You two can share it.”
My brother grabbed it and threw it around the house.
I asked for a chance to play with it.
He shoved me to the floor, and I screamed.
So, my mother took it away, yelled “SO YOU TWO CAN’T SHARE?” and tore it in half.
Thank god she never did that with the dog.