Chapter 6: Dinner On Sunday

Justin hauled his trousers up with one hand and shoved me off the desk with the other.

"Under," he whispered.

"Where?"

"The kneehole. Go."

I dropped to my knees in the dark space under the desk with my jeans at my thighs and my sweater a yard away on the floor.

He kicked the sweater under the desk after me.

It landed on my head.

The door opened.

"Justin?" said a deep voice. "I knew you'd still be here. You don't eat."

Boots crossed the carpet.

From where I knelt I could see two big brown work boots and the cuffs of faded jeans.

"Dad," Justin said, and his voice came out half an octave too high.

"You look flushed. Are you sick?"

"I was running the stairs."

"In a clinic with no stairs."

"I was thinking about stairs."

I pressed my fist against my mouth.

Something heavy landed on the desk above me.

"Turkey on rye," said Stanley. "Eat it. I put the mustard on the side."

"Thanks."

"What's all this on the floor?"

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