"So you're eleven now, squirt," Raymond said, cussing a second as the Ford caught the edge of a large pothole. "Do you feel any older?"

"I don't know. I think so," Billy said tentatively.

"Well, is that a mustache I see?"

Billy reached up, running his hand along his lip, and said: "I don't feel anything. Do you really see one?"

Raymond glanced over and squinted, a frown creasing his lips.

"I thought so, little man" he said. "It might be the light playing tricks. Maybe it was dirt. Did you wash your face this morning?"

"You know I did! I always wash before church."

"So you do," Raymond agreed, then turned his head and gave his son one last quick appraisal. "I still think I see something. Check again."

Billy slowly and carefully felt every bit of flesh on his upper lip, and said: "Well, maybe there's something there."

"I told you, squirt."

The sharp, thick scent of road-roasted skunk suddenly filled the air. They glanced at each other and quickly rolled up their windows. Almost immediately the Fairmont grew uncomfortably hot, but the choice was the heat or sniffing skunk in full bloom and neither of them had stomach for that.