Nearly a year later, there came a hesitant knock on Logan’s door. He jumped up from the battered kitchen table and answered. His hair now reached his shoulders.
On the doorstep stood a woman who resembled Logan, with a sculpted nose, generous lips, and striking brows. She looked up at him, nervously.
“Mom,” he said, pushing his hair back. An iota of silence stretched to the point of discomfort. “Come in.”
She held out her arms, and after a fraction of a second, he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed.
“So, where do we start?” he said, stepping back.
She absorbed every detail of his face like she was studying a work of art.
“How about we start with breakfast,” she said, and they turned toward the kitchen.
