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It had a hammer that I could either cock back with my thumb, or cock and fire in one motion by just pulling the trigger. The barrel and the frame of the gun were cast out of some kind of cheap steel alloy, with elaborate scrollwork etched into the barrel and a cylinder that slid open to reveal a bunch of metal spools and gears where I could insert a roll of paper caps. Every time I pulled the trigger, the gun would feed a fresh paper cap into the space between the hammer and the striker, drop the hammer, and the toy would make a noise like a real gun. Sometimes the caps would even throw some sparks. Most of the gun was built to last a million years, except for the cheap plastic handle that broke off after I’d had the toy for less than a month. It could be taped back on, but the tape would inevitably get loose and the handle would come off again.
    One morning, while I was playing by myself before my dad got out of bed, the handle fell off. The tape was in my dad’s room to keep me from playing with it, but he was asleep. He usually stayed up late and slept in, and the rule was that I had to leave him alone until he woke up on his own. So maybe I forgot, or maybe I was just four years old and wanted what I wanted, but I knocked very gently on his bedroom door and poked my head inside his room.
    â€œDad?” I said.
    He was under the covers on his bed and he didn’t move, but I could tell he was awake.
    â€œYeah?” he said after a minute.
    â€œDad, can I have the tape? My cap gun’s broken.”
    â€œLet me see it,” he said, holding out his hand.
    I walked over and handed the toy to him, hoping he’d have some magic fix that only grownups knew. He looked it over for a second, then threw it against his bedroom wall as hard as he could. It was a quick, startling motion and I jumped back away from the bed. The gun exploded into pieces and loose parts that rained down on his bookshelves and dresser. There was an enormous dent in the wall where it had struck. I was too surprised to react for a second.
    â€œI’ve told you once,” he said in an even, measured tone. “I’ve told you a million fucking times. Do not wake me up in the fucking morning unless it’s a fucking emergency.”
    I started to cry. Partly from surprise, but mostly from disappointment. I was still processing the fact that he wasn’t going to help me fix my toy.
    â€œStop that fucking sniveling or I’ll give you something to cry about!” he roared.
    I scurried out of the room, but I stopped to close the door carefully behind me. Because slamming the door was something else I wasn’t supposed to do in the morning, and I was in enough trouble as it was.
    Supposedly, this was all part of Dad’s master plan.
    Whenever he told me to do something and I refused, I got to the count of three to comply or there’d be a spanking. Usually a set number of swats with his bare hand while he held me over his knee. That was his version of obedience training. But there were other kinds of spankings, where maybe I got to the count of three or maybe I didn’t. Maybe we were fighting, or maybe I did something that just pushed him over the edge. Those were the ones where I screamed and tried to get away and he’d hold me down while I was thrashing and hit me anywhere he could get a piece of me—ass, back, legs, neck, head. There were the kind where he’d use a spatula or a belt. And all of that fell into his general philosophy of parenting. He was always telling people—sometimes right in front of me—that parenting was all about positive and negative reinforcement. He said that even if he wasn’t consistent about punishment, there was an overarching consistency to his moods, and subtle cues that I could learn over time if the stakes were high enough. So sometimes there were spankings and sometimes there were beatings, and one time when I was four he picked me up and threw