When I returned outside with my arms full of bottled sauce, the whole front yard sounded like motocross speedway. The roars of motorcycles had drowned out the usual gentle hum of the cicadas. Apparently, the party had arrived as the revving bikes parked to a dusty quiet; several deep male voices meandered from the stand of trees. I quickly spotted several heads of men encircling the Cajun, giving bro hugs and popping beer bottle tops.
Standing on the top step, I glanced back at Aidan. Still battened down in the rocker, he’d nodded off to sleep. His head dropped to the side and his chest moved faintly from breathing. A pain of guilt licked through me. Maybe I should lay him down on one of the beds. Even in his sleep, his face appeared strained. We couldn’t keep him in that chair all night.
