Signed, Skye Harper
Nanny sat at the kitchen table when I wandered in at dusk from swimming, not a light in the house on, just a cigarette glowing.
“Hey, Winston girl,” she said. “You got a minute?”
She didn’t sound too happy. In fact, I’d say she sounded right miserable. I strained to see more than the glow of her ciggie but was hypnotized by the red burn.
Blinking, I said, “What’s wrong?” I slid onto the rattan chair, my behind...