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Dr. Walters lives in a gray house with a huge tree that has sprinkled his lawn with brown leaves, making a crunchy blanket for us to walk over to get to his door. Adam rings the bell, and I check my watch. By the time Aether let us leave, it was late in the afternoon, our entire day wasted. By now, Shawnda must be wondering where Chris is. I pray she hasn’t gone into labor yet. The door opens, and a Latino man stands behind it. He’s younger than Dr. Walters but not by much, maybe in his forties or so, and ridiculously good-looking with shapely cheekbones, a strong jaw, bronze skin, and a hint of curl to his dark hair. “Yes?” he asks with the faintest trace of an accent. “We’re looking for Dr.—I mean, Bill Walters,” Adam says. “Is this the wrong house?” The man leans against the door and
- Writer
