Inside the kitchen, Margaret Mercer—MiMi to her grandson—stood at the counter, slicing peaches into a bowl.
From the den, the sound of a baseball game drifted through the house.
Davie’s grandfather sat in his usual chair watching, though every few minutes he glanced out the back toward the pool.
“Boy’s still out there?” he called.
“Where else would he be?” Margaret said.
Outside, nine-year-old Davie Mercer Jr. threw a baseball against the old maple tree beside the pool.
The ball struck the trunk with a dull thump and bounced back across the grass.
Davie chased it, laughing to himself.
A cruiser rolled slowly up the gravel drive.
Davie stopped in the middle of the yard.
Then his face lit up.
“Uncle Danny!”
He tore across the grass at a dead run just as State Trooper Danny Mercer stepped out of the patrol car.
Danny barely had time to shut the door before Davie hit him full force.
“Well now.” Danny laughed, catching him easily and lifting him off the ground. “Where’s the fire?”
“You said you’d come watch me pitch!”
“I thought I was stopping by to say hello.”
Danny set him down, but Davie was already grabbing his hand and pulling.
“Come on!”
From the kitchen sink, Margaret watched them and smiled.
“Danny’s here,” she called. “Your son’s finally made it.”
Her husband leaned forward in his chair to see out the window.
“Boy nearly knocked him over.”
Out back, Davie took his place beside the old maple tree with exaggerated seriousness.
“Ready?” he called.
Danny folded his arms. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The ball came sailing toward him.
Danny caught it one-handed.
“Not bad.”
“PopPop says I’m getting faster.”
