He holds his hand out for the phone, but as I pass it over, my gaze falls on his knuckles. They’re split open and raw red. My first impression is that it must be from scrubbing the shed yesterday, but that can’t be right. He’d been wearing those ridiculous gloves for the very purpose of protecting his skin. And this looks more unnatural, more deliberate, as if he’d slammed his fist into something hard . . . Like Danny’s face.
