Nathan wiped his face.
“And Dad taught him stuff,” he said. “Taught both of us. How to change oil. How to fix a carburetor. How to play poker. How to play guitar. He had a guitar at the motel. A cheap one from a pawn shop. He taught me chords. He said I used to sit on his lap when I was four and strum it while he did the chords.”
I remembered. Greg on the couch. Nathan in his lap. A tiny hand on the strings. Greg’s big hand on the neck.
Friends in Low Places.
“Cole calls him Mr. Greg,” Nathan said. “He made Cole a little wooden car. With a pocketknife. Out of a piece of a pallet he found behind the motel. It took him three weeks because his hands shook so bad.”
Ezoic
We pulled into the parking garage at UK Hospital at five-twelve a.m.
