younger than Tony, maybe around thirty, with tattoos covering both forearms.
“I can take him,” he said. “Before he starves to death in the lobby.”
I hesitated.
Tony noticed.
“He’s good, Megan,” he said. “That’s Marcus. He’s been helping out here for a few weeks.”
Ethan shrugged.
“Fine.”
So I nodded.
“Okay.”
Marcus settled him into the chair, fastened the cape, and started cutting.
Everything was normal.
For about fifteen minutes.
Ethan talked nonstop.
Soccer.
School.
A boy in his class who had eaten a crayon on a dare.
Marcus
