<blockquote>His father had stood before her in a starched white shirt and clip-on black tie instead of these clothes that made more sense in the Georgia summer, especially when the air conditioning was out most of the time.
But John, son of Jamal, son of John, son of John, son of Emanuel and back to a name forgotten and beaten from him, carried those same eyes. And no matter whether they came to church in denim overalls with a frayed bib, a clip-on tie with a starched shirt or a plaid button-down with khakis, they all asked the same thing.
She bent so she wouldn’t hover over him. She hadn’t frightened someone in a long time and never one of her own.</blockquote>
