“If you don’t care about any of it, George, why’d you pick a fight with Auggie Williamson?” He lowers his hand and looks at her, and the sun bathes the side of his face in harsh yellow that bounces and refracts as she drives. “He was weak,” he says. “You could see it in his eyes.” “Maybe he was just scared.” “Fear’s a weakness.” He holds his hand back up to the sun. “I don’t like weakness.” “Maybe it’s not weakness. Maybe it’s just a kind heart.”
