Young Tyson, the wunderkind chef, had changed from a skinny twelve-year-old to a brawny teenager of seventeen years. He wore his hair fashionably short and kept the fringe out of his eyes with glittery barrettes. He still wore dresses, something his current girlfriend especially fancied about him. Tyson and John had struck up something like a friendship over the years. Whenever the boy wasn’t in the kitchen or with one of his girlfriends, he was found in the stables or at John’s cabin, playing cards or just discussing life and the universe until the wee hours. The front door to John’s house stood ajar. Tyson pushed it open without even stopping and rushed to the small bedroom, followed closely by Summer and Timothy. John sat on a small, wooden stool next to his bed, one foot tapping impatiently against the side of the nightstand. He rose when the puny crowd barged in. A frown appeared on his forehead as his gaze fell on protector Niman, but he didn’t send him away. It was not until John spoke that Summer’s eyes shifted to the bed, where Eugenia lay.
