“No,” I said, keeping my voice flat and even. “Why do you ask that, Sophie?”
“I thought I heard his truck,” she said, her eyes tracking my hand. “The one with the loud tailpipe. It was parked by the culvert when the school bus dropped me off.”
“He has a lot of errands in this neighborhood,” I said.
“He looked at our porch,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He didn’t wave.”
I stood up and brushed my hand against my jeans, the tiny brass slivers falling back onto the rug.
“We are going to have breakfast now,” I said. “Go get your shoes.”
“Are we going to Aunt Natalie’s for the cookout on Labor Day?” she asked, her fingers still working the hem of her shirt.
“We’ll see,” I said. “Go on, Sophie.”
She turned and ran back up the stairs, her quick steps shaking the old wooden floorboards.
