Delilah wandered into the driveway where I was lying on my back, my head and shoulders under the Camaro as I struggled to attach a radiator hose, cursing fluently to myself. Dusk was approaching, and it was getting too dark to see what I was doing. It was unclear why she did it, but sometimes Delilah came to sit with me on evenings like this while I worked on the Camaro. Most of the time we didn’t say much to each other, but she made herself useful by holding the light when I was working on the undercarriage. Though I wouldn’t readily admit it to her, to anyone, I liked having her quiet company while I worked on the car. As I was tightening the metal clamp over the hose, my hand slipped and I raked a cut along my knuckle. “Ouch! Shit,” I said, and sat up fast enough to crack my head on the undercarriage of the car. “Ah! Goddamn it.” I scooted out from under the car, rubbing my head as I looked at my knuckle and Delilah shined the light on it. “Blood?” she asked. “A little,”
What do You think about The Boy Who Killed Grant Parker?
