The grocery store parking lot had the specific, unhurried quality of early evening — the sky going amber at its edges, the air carrying the mild warmth of a day that was winding down without any particular urgency. The ordinary texture of an ordinary Tuesday at six o'clock.
Moses Reeves walked out of the sliding doors with two bags in one hand and his phone at his ear, moving at the easy pace of a man whose day was essentially done. His voice, when he spoke, had the specific softening that happened to even the most guarded people when they were talking to someone they loved without reservation.
"You don't have to worry, my princess." A pause. He laughed — genuine, unguarded, the laugh of a man who had, for the duration of this phone call, entirely ceased to be anyone's adversary. "Daddy got you the pink one. Blue's for Kevin."
