THREE
The fireworks were over, but Gregory Faa felt as if he’d been caught up in some sort of residual whirlwind that left him baffled, intrigued, and with an overwhelming sense that he’d just been duped.
“And I don’t like that feeling,” he announced after arriving at the spot where his cousin’s wife, Kiya, was sitting on a small woolen blanket.
“What feeling?”
“That someone has just pulled the wool over my eyes. A lot of wool. At least three or four sheep’s worth. Perhaps a small flock.”
Kiya scrunched up her nose, pursed her lips, and looked thoughtful. “That’s kind of odd, isn’t it? I mean, you’re not the easiest person to pull the wool . . . over . . . on. That got mangled. How should I end that sentence?”
“—‘on which the wool can be pulled.’ At least, that seems a fairly grammat
