Chapter 8: Eighty Thousand

On the first Thursday in November, which was my new day off, Rob's pickup pulled up to the curb on Water Street.

It sat there for four minutes.

I know it was four minutes because I counted.

I was in the back yard with a borrowed spade, turning the bare dirt along the fence.

Then the truck door opened, and my brother-in-law came around the side of the house with his cap crushed in both hands.

Rob is thirty-eight, six foot two, and built.

He looked at me, at the spade, and at his dad on the back porch with a blanket over his knees.

Then he gave all three of us a thumbs-up.

He caught himself doing it and put the hand in his pocket.

"Hey, Jenna. Hey, Dad. I didn't call first. I figured you'd say no."

"I would have," I said.

"That's fair."

Gene looked at him for a long time.

Then he nudged the tablet across the table with one finger until it sat in front of the empty chair.

The screen was lit, and the mail app was open.

"Sit," said the voice. "Read."

Rob sat in the chair.

I went back to the spade, because I did not want to be in the room for it.

I also wanted to hear every word.

He read for ten minutes without a sound.

His lips moved a little on the long ones, and every few emails he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Dad," he said finally, in a voice that did not sound like a salesman's. "This first one."

Gene waited.

"'Rob. Come Saturday and sit with me. I do not need anything fixed. I need you in the chair.'"

Rob's jaw worked. "That's all it says."

"Yes," said the voice.