Twenty-five minutes is how long it takes to extract Trae from the truck and another five minutes to drag him inside the house. She’s spewing incoherent one-syllables during the entire ordeal. When they finally settle him on the couch, which is inadequate for his above six-foot frame, they are both out of breath, panting.
“Clean his face,” Uncle Chris says.
“What?” Her eyes widen as she swings her head in the old man’s direction, piercing him with indignant, challenging eyes.
“Get a damp towel and remove the dirt and sand from his face.” His voice remains calm, his intonation unchanged, as he waves her off. He only has to throw in extra words, make it more specific, and it sounds urgent. Or more like a threat.
No matter how busy, tired, sleepy or absorbed in a book she is, when
