byFrom his wheelchair on the second floor sun-porch, King Johnson squinted through the August glare at the dust trail winding upward from the valley. Right on schedule. He’d been tipped off that Larkin would be stopping by for an unofficial visit. Ten thousand acres, and he still didn’t have privacy.
“Company coming, Doris,” he said to the child sprawled at his feet, playing with her iPad.
She scrambled up to peer over the railing.
“Put your game away, dear.”
“Gran’pa...what does ‘flay’ mean?”
“‘Flay’? The tired old voice still held a tone of authority. “Where did you see that?”
“I just Googled you! There was a picture of you—not like now—like before you were sick. An’ it said, ‘Larkin Flays King Monopoly.’ Is that good, Gran’pa?”
The dust trail petered out at the entrance to the pa
