Phoenix tucked the quilt in around his grandfather’s shoulders. The brightly coloured disappearing nine-patch design had been his grandpa’s favourite these past few years. It was a simple technique, Jimmy said, but if a guy used his colours just right he could make it look real hard.
The old man opened his eyes. “Frankie?”
“It’s Phoenix, Grandpa.”
“Brandon?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not Frankie.”
Phoenix nodded and took his grandfather’s hand.
“Frankie.” Jimmy’s eyes welled with tears. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I’m here.”
Bernadette sat on a green brocade loveseat across from Jimmy’s bed. Ostensibly she was reading through listings and ignoring the two men. Still, it rankled, her dad’s desire to see Frankie, as though she wasn’t the one who walked away, as though she wasn’t the one
