“A fight is raging inside me,” said an old man to his son. “It is a terrible fight between two wolves. One wolf is darkness, rage, grief. The other is good: compassion, peace, and love. The same fight is going on inside you.”

The son considered this carefully for a moment and then asked, “Which wolf will win?”

The old man replied simply, “The one you feed.”

The son thought this over again and, recalling some things he’d learned in his health class recently, he said to his father, “What if I feed the evil wolf a gluten-free diet of organically raised, garden-green produce and sustainably farmed white-protein sources, and the good wolf a more mainstream diet of fatty red proteins and GMO-based corn products, maybe some occasional fast-food runs?”

But the old man had fallen asleep.

“I would seriously kill for some McD’s,” the boy thought. He watched the old man sleep for a minute, regarding him fondly. Then he yoinked a five-spot from the old man’s wallet and stole into the night.

“A fight is going on inside me,” said an old man to his son. “It’s a terrible fight involving three wolves. One wolf is darkness, rage, grief. Another is good, compassion, peace. The third wolf sits at a distance, observing the battle and refusing to judge either one. The same wolves are within you.”

The son considered this carefully for a minute and then said, “Okay — so the third wolf neither wins nor loses? He just judges and stumbles around in his boxers?”

“I don’t know,” the old man said, “but if he does, he doesn’t give a fuck.”

“Right,” the son continued, “Mr. Third Wolf, sir.”

“Watch your God-damned tone.”

“Or what? You’ll start howling?”

“Fuck you,” the old man said. “You think you’re so smart. You don’t get shit.”

“I get that you’re never sober,” the son shot back, and the old man whirled, squared off, paws bunched into white fists. He hesitated —

“WHAT?” the son yelled. “You don’t have THE GUTS? TRY IT!”

The father seethed: “Go find your mother and ask her if I had the guts twenty years ago! ASK HER!” Then the old man winced and beat his chest, and the boy, nearly in tears even though he’d seen this a hundred times before, stormed away, wondering when he’d get his chance for one shot, just one fair shot at that used-up son of a bitch.

“A fight is going on inside me,” said an old man to his son. “It is a terrible fight involving two wolves. One wolf is your Aunt Imelda’s spicy tuna-broccoli casserole, and the other wolf is your Uncle Jeff’s incessant bullshit about the ‘problems with this country.’”

The son wasn’t sure about what to say, but the old man kept staring at him with what might have been a tinge of annoyance, even anger, though the boy couldn’t guess at what. Finally, the son said, “Which wolf is going to win?”

The old man shut his eyes and shook his head. “Your uncle’s stupidity isn’t going away anytime soon, but I think that casserole is about to herald its triumphant spiritual return.”

At that, the father let rip a loud “yowl” and then belched explosively.

“Jesus, Dad!” the boy yelped and then scurried off while his father chuckled.

“A fight is going on inside me.”

“Dad —”

“It’s awful, this fight —”

”— two wolves, Dad, I know.”

“One wolf, the handsome wolf —”

“Dad, I think Melissa might be pregnant.”

The old man stopped. He massaged his eyes as though what he’d heard might have harmed his vision. He then regarded his son with a mix of loss and sadness. Maybe some envy. He said, “I guess we know which wolf won, don’t we?”

“It could’ve been either wolf, Dad. They were united on the Melissa question.”

“Right.”

“I’ve told Mom. She thinks Melissa should move in and we should take the spare room until the baby’s born.”

The father said, “A fight is going on inside me …”

“So these two wolves —” said an old man, but his young son cut in: “I love you, Dad!”

“No one ever wants my wisdom,” the old man barked. At that, his much-younger wife, Lupe, walked in with a platter. She was radiant. This was his third marriage, and after two prior, staggering shots at bliss and a dozen years in a Twelve Step program, he thought he’d finally gotten his shit together. The boy was their only child.

She said, “I’ve got nachos! Has the game started?”

“Dad was going to talk about his wolves.”

“Oh, good,” said Lupe, who’d met the old man when they’d both volunteered during the last Democratic election and had found themselves serendipitously stranded in an elevator one night while canvassing an upscale apartment building. “Well, wolves love nachos. Happy Father’s Day, honey.”

“Everyone knows wolves love nachos,” the old man growled. He sampled one. Chipot-olé! And she’d found his favorite queso Oaxaca. He felt full. Whole. He wolfed them down.