“We should find somewhere quieter,” I said.
“Somewhere quieter?”
“With trees. A backyard. Maybe a neighborhood where a child can play outside without me worrying every second.”
He rested his hands on my shoulders.
“You’ve always wanted a backyard.”
I turned toward him.
“How do you remember everything I say?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“You’re a mechanic, not a detective.”
“Same basic principle. Listen carefully, figure out what’s wrong, and try not to make it worse.”
I laughed and reached for the battered photo album I’d kept since childhood.
There was Dad standing beside the kitchen table.
There I was on the backyard swing, my hair tied in two uneven ponytails.
And there, above the kitchen window, were the three blue birds.
Ethan sat beside me and studied the photographs.
“Your dad painted these himself?”
“Every feather.”
He leaned closer.
“This one’s crooked.”
I smiled.
“That was my favorite.”
I traced the edge of the kitchen table in the photograph.
