Lyle looked at his father. He looked at Randy. And he knew that if Vaughn insisted—really insisted—that Randy would follow Vaughn into the living room as Vaughn had asked. Randy would listen to their story in silence and let Vaughn make a decision on it. He could even tell that Randy would pretend to agree with whatever conclusion Vaughn came to. It would always be there, though. That nagging doubt, that uncertainty. Unless Lyle found a way to make Randy understand, they’d be right back to the nervous glances and the startles that Randy had spent too long doing when Randy had come back from DC almost three years ago. Lyle remembered their conversation at the airport in Denver—pointless, ridiculous information being woven into a story for no other reason than Randy’s attempt to make convers
