Daddy sat in the chair that Charlie had managed to finagle out of the nurses, and he'd pulled my swinging table up to use it as a desk. There were papers scattered all over it, and he had his checkbook out and a pen stuck in it.
"Daddy, why don't you let me help you with that?" Cross Acre's books had been my responsibility since I was in high school. "I can write checks and pay bills." My handwriting might not be pretty, but if a doctor got away with chicken scratch, surely no one would question my wobbly script.
He ran a hand through his grey hair. I didn't think I'd ever get used to seeing Daddy without a hat. There were rarely times I saw him without one-church and supper; that was about it. But in the hospital, he never brought one, although I could tell he'd had one on in the truck
