"Easy Rawlins!" someone called.
I turned to see Quinten Naylor twist the handle of my front gate.
"Eathy," my baby, Edna, cooed as she played peacefully with her feet in her crib next to me on the front porch.
Quinten was normal in height but he was broad and powerful-looking. His hands were the size of potholders, even under the suit jacket his shoulders were round melons. Quinten was a brown man but there was a lot of red under the skin. It was almost as if he were rage-colored.
As Quinten strode across the lawn he crushed a patch of chives that I'd been growing for seven years.