Alone in front of the bar stood Mr. Z, arms folded across his chest, his face expressionless, as though he'd never met me before. Never mind he'd neve... been a cuddly guy or an outwardly warm father in his interactions with his daughters, but he'd at least acknowledged my existence before now. He'd even attended a couple of my games, and my parents and I had watched some of the girls' soccer matches."Hello, Mr. Z." I knew better than to offer my hand.No answer.I tried a little bit of a smile, an. "Nice to meet you, Kent," I replied, loving the look of uneasiness on his face."Well… let’s head home," Guy then suggested."Why don’t you sit in front with Guy," I recommended to Kent as we arrived at the vehicle.As we drove home I continually squeezed Kent’s right shoulder as I perpetuated my fun at his discomfort. It was childish I know, but I simply couldn’t help myself.When there was finally a lull in their conversation, I asked, "Is there a spare bed in the migrant’s quarters, Guy?". More

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