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Savannah.
    “Yes, Iris,” Margaret said—her voice accelerated, “he hit Savannah, too and knocked her down. She has a messed-up knee.”
    “My God!” Iris exclaimed, looking down at Savannah’s legs. “He attacked you, too?”
    “He pushed me, that’s all.”
    Iris sat up straight, revealing a hint of black lace from beneath the low neckline of her fitted green and black blouse. “That’s assault, kiddo.”
    “Oh I forgot, you know the lingo now,” Savannah said as she started to stand up. “Ouch.” She grimaced, reaching down and cupping her hand over her knee.
    Margaret quickly stood. “Sit down, Vannie. I’ll serve the cobbler.”
    Iris joined Margaret at the kitchen counter. “Here, Maggie, let me get those,” Iris said when she saw her struggling to reach the dessert plates.
    “Thanks, Iris. Everything in this house is organized for giants. I need a stepstool or stilts to get anything out of these cabinets.” Margaret glanced over at her husband and said, “I’m trying to train Max to store everyday things we need for the shelter cats where I can reach them.”
    “Or you could just grow, or wear platform shoes,” Savannah quipped.
    Margaret smirked in her niece’s direction. “Spoken by the only Brannon to get the tall genes.”
    Once the cobbler was served and the coffee poured, Michael asked Iris, “So is Craig on the case?”
    “He didn’t say.” She took a sip of coffee, looked down at her dessert, and shook her head. “This is an awful thing to have happened. I was so scared for you two when I heard about it.” Tears filled her eyes.
    “We’re okay, Iris,” Savannah said, setting her fork down and patting her friend’s arm. “Thanks for caring.”
    “Iris, what do you hear from Damon?” Margaret asked. “Is he getting along okay?”
    Still dabbing at her carefully made-up eyes, Iris said, “It seems so. He’s over at the state prison. Craig thinks he may get out early.” Her eyes brightened a little. “We can visit.”
    “You visit that place?” Margaret scrunched up her face. “I’ve never set foot in a prison or jail. It must be dreary and drab. And then there are all of those…criminals.” She shuddered.
    “It’s not my favorite place to spend a Sunday afternoon; that’s for sure,” Iris agreed. She took a bite of her cobbler, swallowed, and said, “But they do have a grassy area with picnic tables where you can visit. So it’s not too bad.” She looked off into space for a moment. “If I want my son back, it’s something I have to do.” She glanced over at Margaret. “You know, Maggie, Damon and I get along better when he’s in jail than any other time. It’s almost like the relationship we had when he was twelve. You remember those days, don’t you? He was a cool kid. Things didn’t go bad until he was in his senior year at high school.” She became sullen for a moment. And then she smiled. “He’s a very different young man when he’s not with those so called friends of his.”
    Margaret shook her head in disgust. “Iris, my dear, you can’t blame his friends. He made his own decision to do drugs. It was the drugs making him so difficult, don’t you know that?”
    Iris lowered her eyes. “Yeah, you’re right, Maggie.” She looked up and said, “They tell us at Al-Anon that we have to fight going into denial. I’ve been in denial for much too long.” Smiling brightly, she said, “Craig is really helping me change my thoughts—my way of thinking.” She became serious for a moment. “Makes a big difference. It really does.”
    “That’s cool, Iris,” Max said, while scooping up more of the dessert with his spoon. “Sounds like you and Damon are turning over a new leaf.”
    “Yes,” she said, glancing around the table, “and the relationship between the younger boys and Damon is getting better, too. You know, Damon was eleven when I married the boys’ father. Chris and Brett were just toddlers. Damon was rather fond of his