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I used to love to linger and breathe in the scent of our cluttered garage, and of Dad’s old pickup always parked there. Traces of carbon monoxide mingled with the must of old things for an aroma so seductive it was the suicide of choice for folks hell-bent on finding an easy way out. The coroner said too much booze made Dad pass out before he cut the motor that night, but I never believed it. Later on, the smell I came to hate most was his cologne-drenched brother who often came to hang out and play pinochle with Mom.