Chapter 13We gathered around the close-knit dining room table, too close for comfort (Rocco’s father gripped my hand with his hairy bear claw) and we all held hands, a tradition at the Barrett’s residence.
I sat to the left of Rocco, his rough palm squeezing mine, but I didn’t care. I thought his grasp was more from fear than comfort. He was shaking.
Verna was to his left, her back to the only window in the room; Rex held her other hand.
“Let’s say grace,” Verna said, looking to Rocco to begin dinner prayer.
His eyes were closed; his head fell forward, sloping close to the edge of his chest.
“Rocco,” his mother said, a sharp, determined tone in her clipped voice.
A weight settled over the room. I felt tense, awkward, shifting in my chair.
Rocco opened his eyes, lifted his head slowl
