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Harrison's truck bumps over something he didn't see, and his eyes flint into the rearview to watch his father's beehive come off the bed a couple of inches and slam down again onto the metal. The hive is a manmade box just barely too large for Harrison to carry by himself and painted white. Inside are slats made out of a tightly woven chicken wire and of course, bees and their honey. It's not the honey that his father wants, though. It's the bees and their stings, which are the best treatment that his father knows for his rheumatism.