“Music. You out?” she asked. “I have been. But” – he shot a look at me – “I’m maybe wading back into the Mississippi. You know how it goes.” “I do,” Dot said. Then she cast a glance at me, quick as a knife blade. “You watch yourself in there, see. She muddy. And she changing course.” “I’m a big boy, Dot. And I can swim. But thanks.” He kissed her cheek. “Is this metaphor gonna stretch any thinner?” I asked. “Because the river would like to get a damn drink and listen to some music.”
