She looked down the street at the cars and the news van, then back to the house where Nolasco stood on the porch, his head tilted back, blowing smoke into the air. A cigarette dangled from his fingers. He ran his other hand through his hair, examined it, then looked to be rubbing off loose strands. She was beginning to more fully understand the amount of pressure Nolasco had been under.
Could they actually make peace?
