21
The tennis ball had become my best friend. Actually, the tennis ball pretty much seemed to be my only friend. Its coarse surface rubbed against my thumb-pad beneath the small circles I made, as I stared out my bedroom window at the driveway—where my truck still didn’t sit, and hadn’t since Ethan had taken it the night before.
A creak on the landing had my ears twitching, and an inhalation identified Dad.
“Dinner’ll be ready in fifteen,” he said.
I presumed he referred to the chowder I could smell, one Beth had made for us and sent over in a casserole pot—something she tended to do most days.
I nodded without turning.
“I expect you to eat with us, whether you want to, or not,” he added.
I stretched out my neck, brushing harder at my ball. “When can I have my truck back?”
“Probabl
