Eloise frowned. She liked her father’s metaphors, but they didn’t settle the score. “So is it spring or summer?”
Eloise didn’t close it. She turned, squinting. “It’s June twentieth. That’s still spring.” is june spring or summer
And underneath, in her father’s scribble: Eloise frowned
Margaret put down her knitting. She had been a librarian for forty-two years, and she had never once catalogued June under “Spring.” “Honey, the calendar is a suggestion. The world knows what it is. Look at that sun.” is june spring or summer