" He drove on, head-banging to the backbeat of Ozzy Osborne’s Paranoid. On a steep hill, he downshifted and said, Mary, do you believe you live by what you earn? I said sure, stunned less by the question than by the breath he’d exhaled—real snake-shit breath. He shouted, Some live by what their own hands take. Others feed like buzzards on the carcass’s leftovers. That’s right, I said, wondering what he was getting at. Maybe he wanted me to sell Tupperware or cosmetics door-to-door. Some of the want ads I’d answered offered that. He said, Samson after his haircut could not break his chains, and the stones of the temple rained down. I nodded at the King James Bible cadence he’d slid into, his accent no longer evoking Grandpappy on the porch with a slab of pie, but a preacher whose fire and brimstone maybe came from a guilty conscience about underage choristers. I tried to adopt the big-eyed face of a church girl with a well-armed brother. A crumb of fear. He drew a snuff can out from under his seat and tucked a pinch in his jaw, saying around it, You dip? No, sir, I said. "

― Mary Karr , Lit