My grandfather, who lost his short-term memory sometime during the first eisenhower administration, calls me into his study because he wants to tell me the story he’s never told anybody before again. . my grandfather slams the door and motions me to the chair in front of his desk. i’ll be thirteen in two weeks. “there’s something i want to tell you, son,” he says. “something i’ve never told anybody. you think you’re ready? you think you’ve got the gumption? ” “i think so.” “think so? ” “i know so, sir. i know i’ve got the gumption.” . . “it was late,” he says. “someone knocked on my stateroom door. i leaped up. in those days i slept in uniform—shoes, too.” my grandfather smiles. his face is so perfectly round that his smile looks like a gash in a basketball. i smile back. “don’t smile,” he says. “just because i’m smiling, don’t assume i couldn’t kill you right now. know that about a man.” source: orner, peter. “the raft.” the atlantic online. the atlantic monthly company, apr. 2000. web. 10 may 2011. which point of view does the text use?