It turned out that the house where we’d been talking was Lawrence’s, and the other one belonged to my father. I wasn’t sure if he actually owned it or not, or whether they were both technically Lawrence’s and my father just lived there. Their setup probably wasn’t all that formal.
After Connor gave me a quick encouraging squeeze of my hand, letting me know it was okay for me to leave him for a few minutes, my father and I emerged into the blistering heat and then went into the house that was his.
Here, too, the swamp cooler was blasting away, but the windows only had thin paper shades, so it felt much brighter than the other house. The furniture looked newer, too, although still plain — a couch and chair covered in plain brown canvas, Navajo rugs on the floor.
Actually, it reminded me o
