“Winston Foshay.”
“Winston Foshay.”
The rum went down easy. Inez lightly stamped her feet, enjoying the tingle in her toes. For a grassroots campaign in a community with no grass, Team Tuffy had done well. Now all that had to be done was to make sure Tuffy would live to see his twenty-third summer.
Just one more sip. Inez raised the bottle to her lips, whispering a toast. “Gambate, Winston Foshay, gambate.”