“G’night, sleepyheads.” “Night, Sammy,” they echoed, trailing into the house, all the excitement for the birthday party weekend finally catching up to them. Sam wrapped her sweater tighter around her as she looked up at the cloudy sky. Her father had lured Wes and Travis away with the promise of a thirty-year-old whisky, no doubt telling them his war stories. Sam figured they’d be trapped in the library for a good hour at least. She was just staring up at the sky when she heard the porch door swing open, the telltale squeak of the boards under a man’s weight. “You don’t want to listen to Dad’s old war stories?” she asked over her shoulder, assuming it was Wes. “I’ve known your daddy since the Navy,” her Uncle Grant replied. “And I’ve lived all his best stories with him,” he said, coming up behind her and squeezing her shoulder gently with his big hand. “Did you bring the good stuff?” she asked, peering up at him. “Don’t I always?” Uncle Grant replied as he handed her a bottle of ol’ Gus’s homemade moonshine.
