It’ll ruin us.”

“We’re already ruined, Dad,” I said.

“Our son talked for the first time in eight years because of something he saw on that riverbank.”

Ruth picked up the brass key, turned it over in her palm and laid it back down on the yellow receipt.

“Bob, quit worrying about what the neighbors will say,” Ruth said.

Her voice had the firm tone she’d used back when she taught fifth-grade grammar.

“Our daughter is trying to protect her child.”