My mother nodded at the little microphone, the way you nod at a man across the street on a Sunday. “Afternoon, Dennis,” she said, to nobody who could hear it except the deputy and me.
Dennis had been a deputy in that county for twenty-six years. During his very first winter on the job, he was alone at a wreck out on the state highway, with a family trapped in the car and a long, long wait for help. My mother stayed on the air with him for ninety minutes that night. She talked to him about his dog. About its name and what it liked to eat. About anything that would keep his hands steady.
I didn’t know that then. All I knew was that a grown man had said two words on the radio, and my mother’s chin had come up half an inch.
