He opened his big hands, ineloquent, struggling with it. He stared at them as if the lines in his palms might hold answers, and then, when they didn’t, he looked at me. It was an old glance, a beseeching one. The way he might have looked at me eight years ago when Cleo asked for something he didn’t want to give, when he knew I’d act as a translator between the two of them.
