by Jim Meirose Grant Ofstedahl Frieda, tell me why, said Ben. Why? Frieda looked up at her husband Ben across the dinner table. His gut pushed out as he tapped a fork on his roast beef plate. His words had also swiveled the eyes of their three children — Whitney, aged ten, Morgan, aged eleven, and Justice, aged twelve — toward him, and they just stared at him chewing, the four of them all chewing as he went on after forking a large cut of red meat into his mouth; he spoke as