I found my dad behind his desk, busily hunting and pecking the keys on his keyboard. His typing skills were questionable, but dependable. Upon seeing me, he leaned back in his chair to address Mrs. Thatcher, engrossed in a puzzle book at the dispatcher’s desk. “Betsy’s here. I think I’ll be taking my coffee break now.” “Whatever,” she said, barely looking up. “I’ll let you know if a crime wave up and hits us.” “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. He stepped out from behind the counter and took me by the arm. “What do you say we check out Earl’s?” We walked three doors down to Earl’s Java. The bell tinkled as we walked in. Earl was leaning back in a brown leather booth, snoring softly. Hot coffee on a summer afternoon in Texas wasn’t too much of a moneymaker. My father picked up the coffee pot and a cup and helped himself. “Shouldn’t we wake up Earl?”
