I wanted to march over to that big gray house, bang on the door, and tell Brent Hollis exactly what I thought of him and his deck and his perfect painted lawn and his expensive watch.
I opened my mouth.
Dad put his hand on my arm.
Just put it there. Didn’t squeeze. Didn’t pull. Just rested it there, heavy and warm, the way he used to when I was little and got too upset at the dinner table.
I closed my mouth.
Dad stood up from the porch steps. His knees cracked. He walked over to Tyler.
He held out his hand.
Tyler looked at it, surprised. Then he shook it.
“I appreciate you coming out,” Dad said. “I know you’re just doing your job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Dad didn’t let go of his hand right away.
“Would you do me one favor,” he said, “before you write it up final?”
