Your question to me came like a meteor that destroyed the earth as I sped on the highway at crazy speed. The paceometer warned that the faster I went, the later I’d arrive, but I didn’t care. I enjoyed the speed. It vented my anger. “What’s wrong with the robots?” you asked. I held your hand as we walked together under the desert moon. The moon was full, and some Bedouins were scattered around different tents lit by lanterns. I thought of your question. I could lie to a seven-year-old. I know the seven-year-old will grow up to be a man one day and he will remember his dad had lied to him. I want to tell you the truth. When I’m gone, you will know that a father’s job — only job — is to make a boy a man. That’s it.

I was afraid of the silence, the crackling of the coal. I anticipated more questions coming. “Are we going to survive? And where is God in all of this?”