And she shook her head. Hard.
“No, Grandpa. It isn’t.”
And something cold went all the way down me.
“Honey. Is your dad hurting you?”
Her fingers tightened on my sleeve so hard I felt it through the flannel.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why can’t you tell me?”
And she said:
“Because he’ll get mad.”
And Then She Leaned In Close and Told Me Something That Didn’t Make Any Sense at All
Her mouth was about four inches from my ear and she was barely making sound.
“Just follow him one day.”
“Follow him where?”
She looked at the parking lot again.
“I don’t know how to say it. Just — don’t tell him, and watch where he goes. Please.”
And then she jumped off that bench like something had gone off behind her and started wrapping the napkin around her cone.
“We have to go. He gets mad when I’m late.”
