The dining room of the Morris mansion was a whole other battlefield.
The table stretched so long I was half convinced they used it to host royal banquets in another lifetime.
White linen so crisp you could probably cut your finger on it, glasses sparkling like they had been polished with tears of peasants, and a chandelier overhead that looked one good shake away from crushing us all.
I sat there, spine too straight, hands folded like I was back in Sunday school.
Only difference? Here, God wasn't watching. The Morrises were which was worse.
At the head of the table sat Walter Morris, Dave's father.
He sat there like a king addressing his court. His dark hair was combed back.
The wrinkles were visible, giving a hint of his age and experience, but the sharpness in his eyes made it clear that every line had been earned, and every mistake remembered.
