I can really get lost in it.” —Mae Hall, basket maker DOWNSTAIRS, NAN YAWNED like a cat in the upholstered chair that Mama June had put beside Preston’s bed. Kristina was on a rare night out, Mama June was asleep upstairs, and it was Nan’s night to sit with Preston until he settled. She was glad to take her turn, but it was getting late. Her lids were drooping and her voice was tired from reading aloud. She peeked over at her father. He looked as though he might be sleeping. Uncurling her legs, she felt the blood rush as she stretched them. She wondered if her father missed being able to do such simple things. Ever since his stroke, she’d been aware of all the simple moves and gestures she’d taken for granted. She stood and went to his bedside, surprised to see his eyes open when she approached. “So, you weren’t sleeping after all?” she said to him. “I thought that last chapter did the trick. But it seems to have worked on Blackjack. That old hound is out for the count.
