Chapter Eight
I am staring at shelves filled with lots of small wooden figures. In the center is a table with different tools on it and a stool is next to that. Light is pouring in from the window, offering a great view of some of the guest houses.
Bennett looks at me, not saying anything. Slowly, I walk over to one of the shelves. I pull one of the wooden figures off the shelf. It is of a young girl holding a bucket. I glance back at him, unable to speak.
“Yes,” he says to my silent question, “these are mine.”
I put down the girl holding the bucket and look at another figure. It is of an old woman, sitting in a chair. The fact that Bennett made these is mind-blowing. It is the last thing I ever thought he would do.
“Lame, I know,” he says to me. “Dad doesn’t get it. Last summer when
