Page 159 of The Widow and the Wanted

“He is not a customer,” I say. “He’s my father.”

Rolling about slightly like a turtle flipped on its shell, Alfred groans. “My back.”

Lula’s eyes go from his muddy coat to the angle of his hip, then to the cane half buried near his hand.

“Do not move,” she says.

Alfred grimaces. “I beg your pardon?”

“That was not a request. Did you strike your head?”

“No.”

“Can you feel both feet?”

His pride suffers more visibly than his spine. “Yes.”

“Can you move them?”

He does, barely, boots dragging in the mud then kicking like a newborn in the air.

“Good.”

Boone mutters from the doorway, “Shame.”

“You will need help standing,” she says.

“I require no assistance.”

“You are currently arguing from a puddle of horse shit.”

“I am perfectly capable⁠—”

He plants the cane, attempts to rise, and immediately sinks back down into the mud with a sound that is half grunt and half curse.

Lula sighs.

“All right. That's enough. Boone, help him up.”

“The hell I will.”

“Okee?”

“No.”

She glowers at both of us.

“Leave me,” Alfred groans. “I merely strained something.”

Lula sets her basket on the boardwalk, walks over and grabs his arm with both hands. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

“No,” I say.

“No,” Boone agrees.

“Unhand me,” Alfred says.

Lula closes her eyes. For a moment she simply stands there breathing. Then a door bangs open above the Gemini.