Almost as though the house read his mind, a piece of siding came loose in the stiff breeze.
Teddy Fonnema chuckled.
A photographer shuffled closer. Teddy wasn’t sure who the man was, or who he represented. Teddy did his best to allow the man to photograph him.
Teddy’s mind drifted back.
He was an autoworker’s illegitimate son.
He was born into little, with prospects for less.
He had done the Diana Ross sculpture in secret, for himself, in the back room of the little home, more shack than cottage.
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