heart attack.” “Don’t need new jeans,” Trey says, by reflex. “These’re grand.” “You give me any shit,” Cal says, “and I’ll stop by the barber while we’re there and get this whole beard shaved off, clean as a whistle. You can say hello to my chin warts.” “Changed my mind,” Trey tells him. “I wanta meet them. Go for it.” “Nah,” Cal says. “No point. The weather’s changing. Smell: there’s rain coming.” Trey raises her head. He’s right. The sky is too dark to see clouds, but the air is stirring against her cheek, cool and damp in her nose, moss and wet stone underlying
