Abigail Zimmerman glanced several times at the old master sitting on the sofa, hesitating to speak.
"Abigail, what are you bustling about in and out all the time?"
The old master shifted his gaze from the military channel on TV, his hands propped on a redwood cane in front of him.
The octogenarian's face was ruddy, and he spoke with more vigor than younger people.
"Dad."
Abigail called out, stopping her chore, and walked over with a smile.
"If you have something to say, just say it. Sugar-coated bullets won't work on me!" The old master glanced at Abigail, then turned his face back to the TV.
Abigail sat down on the sofa next to the old master, raised her hand to support his arm, and hesitated before saying, "Dad, today is the death anniversary of Little Nuò, I'd like George to drive me there..."
