GELLER'S POV
I was up before sunrise, ready for the relief operation. The bag I’d packed the night before was slung over my shoulder as I headed downstairs to wait for Dad and Emory. The house was eerily quiet, except for faint voices drifting from the kitchen. As I got closer, the sounds sharpened, revealing Emory and Nana Bertha locked in yet another battle of wills.
“Hold still, young lady,” Nana Bertha scolded, her hands wrestling with Emory’s fiery curls. She was trying and failing to tame them into a tight bun. Emory squirmed in the chair, wincing every few seconds.
"You’re pulling too hard, Nana," Emory protested. "Are you trying to scalp me?"
I leaned against the doorway, thoroughly entertained. Nana Bertha’s determination was unshakable, completely unfazed by Emory’s protests.
