Sandy climbed up on a stool and raised the ice-box lid while his mother opened the oven and pulled out a pan of golden-brown biscuits. “Made these for your father,” she remarked. “The white folks ain’t asked for ’em, but they like ’em, too, so they can serve for both.... Jimboy’s crazy about biscuits.... Did he work today?” “No’m,” said Sandy, jabbing at the ice.
