“Remember when Emma wanted chickens?” I ask.
“We had to raise them for a while because she found out she was allergic to the chick fuzz.” He chuckles. “They were cute even though they were so messy in your garage.”
“You named one Joe because it was grouchy, even though it was a girl.”
“It always pecked me!” His grin widens.
“Who built the coop?” I ask.
“Grant did,” Milo answers.
“That’s right,” I muse.
“I’m going to start color,” Holly announces.
“Okay.”
The buzzing sound begins again, but this time the needle feels like it’s plunging deep in my flesh, the movements more like when a child wraps their whole hand around a crayon and scribbles on a coloring page.
I must wince, because Milo squeezes my hand before he leans toward me. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “But it might distract me if you tell me a story.”
He nods before I watch his eyes search for something in his mind.
“A good one,” I add.
He chuckles. “Okay.”
“And quickly.”
He shakes his head. “Five years ago, my dad was released from prison.”
The pain instantly dissipates from my shoulder, as if Holly isn’t there at all.
“What?” My eyes widen.
“Grandpa must not have told you.”
I shake my head softly. “No, he didn’t.”
“He found me quickly. It wasn’t hard to do when I was playing pro. Showed up at a game.” Milo pauses, looking away fora second before his eyes meet mine again. “He wanted my help. Wanted to change. Or so he said. It didn’t take long for me to realize he didn’t want to change at all.”
I squeeze his hand. “Milo . . .”
He shakes his head again. “It’s okay. I thought . . . I hoped . . . Well, I was disappointed when I learned my money to help him went toward things that continued to hurt him.”
“Where is he now?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. When I quit giving him money, he disappeared.”
“Milo, I’m so sorry.”
“I am too,” he replies.
“You’re not like him, you know.”
He gives me a half smile. “There’s always a cost to our choices, even if those costs look different.”
