I carted my friend down the staircase and out the front door before his bully had a change of heart. “Thanks for that,” Gibs said when we were in my driveway. “No bother, lad,” I replied, guiding him up the porch steps. “Anytime.” “I might hold you to that,” he chuckled, still clutching my hand. For some strange reason, I didn’t pull my hand from his, not even when we got inside. Instead, I let him hold my hand for a solid five minutes before he finally let go.
