walked most of the way back in a shaky, hyper, post-fight rush of disbelief. Vince smoked about ten cigarettes along the way. In a few days, there would show, along his neck, his clavicle, a swath of soft gray bruising, the imprint of Gavin’s arm where he’d gripped him. He said not a word about it. Sometimes bruises are a badge.
The subdivision was a ghost town. As we passed the wood sign reading “Orchard Park” at the turn-in, it felt recently evacuated, which I took to mean the power had returned. Vince said nothing at all for a long time, until he noticed Ray had gone silent too.
“You good?” Vince asked.
Ray nodded. “Thanks, man,” he whispered, and making his limp arm into a kind of swung weapon, playfully thwacked at Vince’s side. Little dude code for love you.
“Next time it’s your turn.”
Ray studied the grass, sounded a nervous moan. He looked to me, his expression—Is that so? But I ignored it as though he wasn’t there at all.
Still, he kept looking, his hands wringing themselves.
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