He shifted in his half sleep, thinking he might as well get up, have breakfast and prune the tree back later in the day, and then Rodney was standing with his arm cocked against the truck’s side mirror. McEban sat up in the seat, turning the key to put the window down, and Rodney reached a mug of coffee through. He was dressed in his bathrobe and hadn’t yet combed his hair. “I figured black,” he said. “Black’s fine.” McEban blew across the top and took a sip and set the cup up on the dash, where it steamed a section of the windshield. He arched his back. “If you want to come in I can fix you something to eat.” “Coffee’ll be enough. Is Kenneth up?” “Not yet.” McEban opened the door, sitting sideways in the seat and reaching for his mug. It was just breaking dawn. “How’d he like being in jail?” “They didn’t put him in a cell or anything like that. But they took his fingerprints, just to make an impression, I guess, and then he sat in a room and drank a Coke with a woman officer until I got over there.”
