Sandy, with his glasses dangling from his fingers while clutching the bowl, turned to look at her. A line of spit trailed down into the porcelain depths. “Fine,” he said, straining to hold a grin. “Just a . . . little tired. Need to . . . get the carburetor rings though. You . . . you coming?”
“Can’t. Mom said I gotta stay and help clean.”
Sandy stood up, not bothering to wipe the spit from his lips. “I’ll go double-quick!” he exclaimed.