He’d called home from the Valley View, filled at once with a vague, nervous excitement and considerable trepidation. There was always a chance Big Billy might answer the phone, and he was not quite ready to confront his father with news of his accident, regardless of its origin. Big Billy’s response to crises was unpredictable, and he had been known to react to almost identical situations in entirely different ways. News of the wreck might send him into a rage (or what was almost worse, into a tirade about David’s driving), or it might not faze him at all. But to David’s intense relief, it had been Uncle Dale who had picked up the receiver in the Sullivans’ kitchen and who’d said he’d be right over. The ancient black pickup crunched onto the gravel of the parking lot. David could see two figures inside: Uncle Dale at the wheel, face shadowed by the battered straw hat he would wear all summer; and a shorter, towheaded form beside him. David’s face lit up when he saw them.
