Her father rings every Saturday about a chicken too big for one, and has never once asked her to come. This Sunday his voice goes up from the garden and stays up, and her chair is on its back before she has decided to move.
Come Quick is a short story about a father and daughter who say what they mean through Sunday lunch and the weather. It stays close to a body that believes a raised voice long before the mind has heard a word of it, and to the relief that comes after, so complete it can only come out sideways. Somewhere in it is one small practical fact she has never needed in two years of Sundays, and the moment it finally reaches her.
It asks very little of you. Stand half a step to the left, where he can see what he is pointing at, and look. A tea towel, a wet lawn, a fork looked at a moment longer than a fork needs. Best heard slowly, late on a Sunday afternoon, when the light has gone yellow and low and somebody's washing is still dripping.
Someone you love may have a voice like his, and you may already be on your feet.