Tristan was home schooled. In the mornings he would help his father in the garage, or out on the driveway. He fetched tools and held lamps while his father repaired old boat engines, green from oxidation. The kind with glow plugs instead of spark plugs, and the occasional thin foamy layer of sea salt over the pale green iron. After lunch was either science or arithmetic followed by a variety of bare-foot skipping exercises in the back yard. His two sisters and mother would take turns playing instruments while they skipped along interwoven astral patterns foot-worn into the earth.
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