“You okay?” Megan asked.

Sandy, with his glasses dangling from his fingers while clutching the bowl, turned to look at her.  A line of spit trailed down into the porcelain depths.  “Fine,” he said, straining to hold a grin.  “Just a . . . little tired.  Need to . . . get the carburetor rings though.  You . . . you coming?”

“Can’t.  Mom said I gotta stay and help clean.”