Travis wanted to tell Miles that, no, they couldn’t throw footballs whenever, not after this weekend, but before he could manage to say it without sounding desperate, Sarah Teague’s orange hair walked through the door.
“Yo, Stilts,” Miles said to her, chewing on the straw in his cup.
Sarah was a few inches taller than most of the girls in school, and, as if in response, her shoulders slumped over her wiry torso like a mild overbite. To Travis, the posture looked disappointed, always mid-sigh as if accepting personal failure, even though she was cute and freckled and had graduated third in the class with a merit scholarship to Johns Hopkins.
“Last shift,” Sarah said, pointing to the sky. “Thank God.”
Travis waved to her, but forgot to put his chopping knife down, so for all he knew the gesture might have looked like a wild death threat.