He holds it up. A little ball dangles on the end of a silver chain: a tiny likeness of the sun, a solar flare shooting off it. It’s bright orange, like the seats to his Jeep. And the orange in my hand, I guess. “You got me a solar flare,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on it. “Yeah, I did.” He keeps staring at it, hand raised, and keychain swinging like a pendulum. That almost-smile graces his lips, and then it expands, spreading across his face as he glances up. Kepler Quinn is smiling at me with a kind of delight I haven’t seen on him in years.
