Anna stood there with her right arm pressing the file tightly to her side. Her left arm was extended across her torso, the hand gripping her opposite elbow, as she slowly turned herself around to face her great-grandfather.
Alvin Miner was seated in a wheelchair, snugly strapped across his waist, the leather restraint almost hidden by a lightly pilled blue and yellow plaid lap blanket. He was a small, compact man, wiry in the way of some older Czech men, like that old Palmer Nemmitz back in Ewerton.
Andy Warhol would have looked like this eventually, if he’d lived beyond February, Anna found herself thinking as she stared at the old man’s high-cheekboned and dark-eyed runneled face. Age had robbed Alvin Miner of all body fat. Waxy, translucent skin rested in wet-tissue folds and creases
