Bartholomew pressed his face to the limo’s privacy glass as palms, sycamores, and oaks blurred past. Outside, brick sidewalks led up to white adobe buildings wearing Spanish-style caps. The suburbs of Santa Barbara.
He grinned. Soon he’d be in a place without the constant sloshing of mops or the strong smell of disinfectant. With people who smiled when he passed through the doorway. A place where no one told him to go take another bath.
At his best friend. Alex’s house.
As they drew closer, Bartholomew shifted his weight and ripped the paper seat cover.
“Shush, Bartholomew! I’m on the phone,” Mother scolded from the seat opposite.
Pressing his lips together, he nodded. Maybe if she hadn’t ordered the headrests removed and replaced with rolls of examining room paper, he could be quiet.
