JACK SAT ON THE FRONT PORCH, his feet up on the rail. A cigar burned down in his hand, a half inch of ash hanging. The night air was cool, but it held the promise of warmer weather. He breathed deeply, smelling the Bradford pears.
Through the screen door he could hear the sounds of family, of Alex and Jim playing. They were kicking the soccer ball inside, and Jack wasn’t about to make them stop. The fact that Jim could kick the ball—that he could run without losing his breath—was enough to make Jack bend the rules.
He still didn’t know what had happened in Paris, whether Jim’s healing was a result of the power of the bones or if it had been something else, perhaps a reward of sorts. In the end, it didn’t matter.
There were only a few things that did. And all of them were in the house behind him.