Say what? Giveaway

In light of this horrible pandemic that's affecting us all, I'm hoping to add a little sunshine to someone's day by offering a chance to win a personalized e-Book of Never Too Late, a tale that is so highly relevant to our global situation. I'm giving away one e-Book, plus a $5.00 Amazon gift card!

How to enter:

1. Read the excerpt from Never Too Late (below).
2. Send an email to david@davidccassidy.com with SayWhat? as the subject line.
3. In your email, answer the following question:

Scott Fisher's wife, Sandy, jokes that Scott suffers from a very specific ailment. What does she call it?

Entry deadline: Friday, March 27, 2020, 6:00 pm EST

I'll announce the winner on (or around) Saturday, March 28, 2020. A big thanks goes out to all entrants, and good luck!

Stuff I need to clarify: (you know, that legal crap)
* Only one e-Book and one $5.00 Amazon gift card will be given away to one winner.
* Only correct answers are eligible to win.
* Only one entry per email address of each entrant is allowed. Duplicate email addresses will be disqualified.
* Only one winner from eligible entrants will be selected as the prize winner in a random drawing.
* Giveaway is open only to countries with valid Amazon online shopping websites.

Excerpt from Never Too Late:

Live, Scott Fisher thought. Live now. Before it’s too late.

He secured the nylon rope to the ten-foot aluminum canoe that crowned his SUV. It was a brand new Hyundai Sante Fe, “well-equipped,” as the ads liked to say. He let his fingers slip along the gleaming taillight as he made his way around to the driver’s side. The vehicle was a little more (okay, a lot more) than he had wanted to pay, but what did it matter now? It was time to live.

He had wanted black, but the salesman had put the screws to him, telling him there were none in that color right now, not with all the toys. And yes, he’d wanted the toys, wanted them now. He had settled for the Sleek Silver, or whatever the guy had called this particular blend, only because it had all the toys. Either that, or be stuck with that god-awful white, or worse, wait two weeks for the black. Like that was an option.

He put his hand to the door and stopped. A thick September breeze kissed him, and he turned back to the house. It was their first real home, a fully detached nest of half-brick, half-siding, a pair of those corkscrewy tree-thingies that looked like something out of a Dr. Seuss nightmare in front, a big juniper out back. Above the mailbox and screwed into the brick was a solid black eight—curiously the age of his son, Kyle—as if to drive his misery home.

Had he locked the front door? Like their rapidly dwindling savings, it seemed so unimportant now. Almost comical. He took a last glance about and got in. He hadn’t even buckled up when Sandy gave him that look again. The one that said, What’s gotten into you?

He forced a smile, and for the moment it seemed to work. She didn’t need to know. Not this minute, anyway.

“Why that one?” she asked, staring at the GPS unit on the dash. He had bought it two weeks ago from an eBayer named CowboyRex out of Forth Worth. “You were what—two?—when that was on TV?”

He supposed he deserved his wife’s sarcasm. He’d had it coming for a while now. “Sure, it’s corny. But it’s cool. And I was seven, by the way.”

“Ah, well, that makes all the difference,” Sandy said, checking herself in her flip-up mirror. “I suppose it drives, too? Fires lasers or something?”

He switched it on. A bank of red lights on both sides of the unit lit up, the attendant voice that of actor William Daniels. “Scott,” Daniels said, “I’ll power up all systems.”

“Ohhhh, brother,” Sandy said. “You’re kidding me.”

“What do you think, sport?” Scott said to the rear-view mirror.

Kyle Fisher had his headphones on, tapping foot and finger to his iPod Nano. Scott had surprised him with it last week. Sandy had asked why, Kyle had just had his birthday last month, and they (that is, Scott) had spoiled him rotten, something they’d (he’d) never done before. Scott’s answer of Why not? hadn’t pleased her, not at all. He guessed he couldn’t blame her. Not the way he was acting lately. Like a kid in a candy store with a no-limit credit card.

Sandy turned to the back seat and motioned to her ear. Kyle ignored her request to lower the volume. “Scott, would you?”

Scott listened to the tune coming from Kyle’s headphones. The music was edgy, ten times harder than Scott’s conservative palette, his hardest the occasional Black Sabbath. Lately, though, he was branching out, from Scorpions to Chopin. The Black Eyed Peas. Sinatra, of all things. Even some old Elvis.

“Keep it down, sport,” Scott said, and Kyle deferred. “You’ll end up like Grandpa. Deaf as a doorknob.”

“That’s cruel,” Sandy said. “It’s not his fault.”

“Sorry,” Scott said, half-laughing. “But sometimes, I don’t know if the man’s ignoring me or just plugged up. Seriously, he needs to see a doctor.”

“At least his problem’s just earwax,” Sandy said. “He doesn’t suffer from MSH, like some people I know.”

“MSH?”

“Male Selective Hearing.”

“What’s that? Did you say something?”

Sandy swatted him playfully.

Kyle sat forward. “What is that, Dad? A GPS?”

“It’s called a mid-life crisis,” Sandy said.

Scott stuck out his tongue at her as he fumbled with the Mio Knight Rider. He pushed a couple of buttons, and K.I.T.T. asked him where he wanted to go.

“How ‘bout back to CowboyRex,” Sandy said.

Scott gave her a look above his glasses with a shake of his head. He turned to his son and asked what he thought.

“Kinda cool,” the boy said. “But kinda lame, too. He’s got a funny voice.”

“Why do we need it?” Sandy said. “Last time I checked, we could still read a map.”

“So 2009,” Scott chuckled. “Everyone else has one.”

“Since when has that ever bothered you?”

Scott started to say something, but didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to. Not without breaking down and blubbering like a lost child.

About the Author David C. Cassidy

Award-winning author David C. Cassidy is the twisted mind behind several chilling books of horror and suspense. An author, photographer, and graphic designer—and a half-decent juggler—he spends his writing life creating tales of terror where Bad Things Happen To Good People. Raised by wolves, he ... Read more

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