Sunday mornings at Lawson Customs had started to develop its own rhythm, and for once, there was nothing threatening about it.
I woke in the packhouse to the smell of coffee drifting through the house and instead of immediately wondering who was outside or checking the street from the window, I stayed in bed for another few minutes while I listened to everyone moving around downstairs.
Someone laughed, a door slammed and a child shouted something that sounded suspiciously like an accusation.
"If you kicked it over the fence again, you're getting the ball yourself!" Mason yelled and I smiled into my pillow.
It was ridiculous, noisy, and completely normal so I got up, showered, brushed my teeth and pulled on a pair of denim shorts with one of my old work shirts before heading downstairs.
