CHAPTER 22
George and Benitoe were off again early the next morning.
Benitoe left George to his thoughts at first, but George didn’t find them a pleasant place to be. His fingers twitched on the steering wheel. He hadn’t slept well—it seemed as though fragmentary dreams of his father had disturbed him all night long. His father towered over him in most of them. I was only nine when it happened, he thought, of course I think of him as a giant. But I did so much admire him. He could do anything outdoors—build a shed, train a hound, stalk a deer.
George was no longer a child. He wondered now why he couldn’t remember any friends of his father’s. All the outdoorsmen he knew in Virginia had one or two buddies who helped them with projects that needed more than one man. Not his father, not tha
