The house was cramped, but cooler than I had expected, thanks to a swamp cooler going at full blast. As Connor and I entered, I saw an old, old Navajo man sitting in a worn leather chair tucked into a corner. The furniture was minimal — that chair, a cracked leather sofa, a plain wooden chair with a woven rush seat and the remnants of red paint on its surface.
I found my voice. “You were expecting us?”
Another smile, and this time I was looking for the Wilcox resemblance and saw it immediately, in the sculpted bones of his face and the strong, elegant nose. He could have probably passed for Connor’s uncle…if Connor had one, of course.
“Yes. The time is here. Please sit down.”
Since I didn’t know what else to do, I took a seat on the leather couch, Connor following suit a second or two
