age, his face was smooth, his eyes bright and friendly,
like the eyes of someone much younger and more
innocent trapped in an older body.
"What's the trouble?" he asked. He wore only a
flannel shirt open at the collar. The sleeves were
frayed. His jeans were mud-stained and worn through
at the knees. He wore no watch, just a silver chain
with what looked like a silver heart.
"It's my uncle. Something terrible has happened
to him," I said.
He looked up at the motor home. "Like what?" "I don't know," I said, now unable to hold back
my tears.
He looked at the motor home again as if it were
somehow forbidden territory. Then he dropped the
tools, scratched the top of his head, and slowly approached the motor home door. Just as he did, the front door of the house opened, and an elderly lady in a faded blue housecoat stepped out. Her gray hair was whiter than his but brushed and combed neatly into a bun. She had a dark brown walking stick with a pearl handle. Her thick-lensed glasses slipped down over
the bridge of her nose as she peered out at me. "What's gain' on. Trevor?" she called, and took
a few more steps forward. She was wearing what
looked like a pair of fluffy white slippers.
"This girl says she's in trouble. Mrs.
Westington."
"What sort of trouble?"
"She says her uncle is in a bad way inside here.
I was just going to look."
"Well, we don't need no more trouble here." she
muttered loudly enough for me to hear.
"Yes, ma'am. I know that." Trevor said, glanced
at me. And then entered the motor home.
I stood outside. The elderly lady remained firrn,
frozen, leaning on her cane and staring hard at me. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm lost."
"Yeah." she said, nodding. "No one comes up