The next morning, we’re sitting around a table in a corner of the motel’s big room; a conference room, Mom had explained earlier. Rita was right, Mr. Daniels is old. His hair is mostly gone and there are big freckle things on his head and arms. On the table is a funny-looking, scratched leather case with straps and buckles that he’s so slowly undoing. I see Rita glance at my mom and give a little shake of her head.
“No talking, no fidgeting, and no playing games on your Nintendo,” she had told me before we rode the elevator down from our room to here. So boring. I yawn, and my mom motions for me to cover my mouth.
Old Mr. Daniels finally gets the case open and arranges files and papers on the table. Mary Beth is closest to him, and she tilts her head and squints, trying to read them. I d
