“He’s got online tutoring modules to finish.”

“He’s got fifteen minutes,” I said, moving right past my father’s shoulder.

The back porch looked out over a yard buried in fallen oak leaves, the cedar shingles darkened by the steady autumn drizzle that rattled against the glass panes.

Ethan stood by the garage wall with a yellow cotton rag, wiping the green moss off the brass outdoor light fixtures.

His wrists poked two inches out past the cuffs of his worn denim jacket.