Ian

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THE HOUSE WAS QUIET except for the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. Ian Quinn tried to focus on his grandmother’s words but his mind continually returned to the clock as he counted the seconds. His younger brothers stood on either side of him, dressed in their Sunday best of well-worn pants and ill-fitting jackets.

Just five years old, Marcus clung to Ian’s arm, his face half-hidden from their grandmother’s piercing gaze. Declan’s rigid posture hid the fear they all felt, cast into this strange place with a woman they’d never met.

“Well,” she said, folding her hands over the head of her cane. “I suppose we must make you something to eat.”

Ian shook his head. “We had supper on the plane, ma’am. We’re not hungry.”

She frowned, then slowly rose from the high-backed chair she sat in. Marcus’s grip tightened on Ian’s arm and he winced. “You may call me Nana Callahan, not ma’am. Though we are strangers, we are family and there is no need to be so formal.”

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