““Everything go all right?” she asked. “I think so,” I said. “Next time you tell them we serve only USDA Choice or better. No bull.” “Got it,” I said. “Kaaay!” Eric squealed. He was eleven now, but brain damaged from an incident a long time ago, and still a baby in a lot of ways. “Who’s a good boy?” I asked, walking into his open arms. He smeared his face against my cheek, and I felt all my problems fall away, the way they did every time I was around Eric. I used to think... it was just love I was feeling. I did love the little guy, and I think he loved me too, but it was more than that. Because Eric was more than a lovable special-needs kid. He was also the most unusual being in Whitfield, which is saying a lot. For one thing, he could draw like Michelangelo, maybe better, even though he couldn’t spell his own name or count to five.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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