By Tony Russell|
I was setting out our trash when Ann Willard came up the street, walking their St. Bernard, Boris. “How’ya doing, Ann?” I said. “Have a good holiday?”
She looked a little red-faced, but that was probably the stiff, cold wind gusting up from the river. Or being a hundred pound woman being dragged by a two hundred pound dog. “I don’t want to sound like a complainer,” she said, “but we’ve had better.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I said. “It’s not Dean, is it? He hasn’t had a relapse with that ‘acceptance’ thing?”
“No, no,” she said. “It’s our daughter Jeannie.”
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