“I trust you,” the older man had said. “It’s in your blood, ain’t everybody got that--you do. You love the Linda Gale. I wouldn’t sell her to just anybody.” August released a sigh recalling the words. He felt good, reassured that his future would be a good one.
Holding his daughter’s hand, August mused, his eyes fixed on what lay beyond the big plate glass window, the docks that lead to that future.
Her eyes studying the faraway look of her father’s face, Tiffany called, “Daddy are you okay, are you still sick?”
“No little bug, I’ve been feeling much better.” He squeezed her hand gently then patted his thin stomach. “I think I ate some bad food.” August’s eyes slide to his wife’s, then back to his daughter’s.
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