Thus, when I catch sight of a white-haired, orange-robed figure walking slowly alongside the road, heading in the direction I’m coming from, it takes a moment to react. Then I’m whipping a U-turn and fumbling for my phone as my headlights illuminate his backside and the slight limp that is back despite last year’s knee replacement. “He’s walking down the pike,” I say. As Piper starts thanking the Lord, I talk over her. “I’ll bring him home.” More Lord thanking. I snap the phone closed. “Uncle Obe,” I call as I step from the truck. He turns and shields his eyes against the glare of headlights. “Who’s there?” “Bridget.” I jog toward him. “Bridget?” I hurt for the question in his voice. It’s not the kind rooted in disbelief, but the “Bridget who?” kind. “Your niece, Bridget.” I halt before him. “My niece. Niece?” I put an arm around his shoulder, and frustration runs through me at how feeble this six-foot-three man feels alongside my five-foot-six frame.
