“Thanks.” Devon’s mouth was dry, but his palms were damp, and the bill felt sticky in his hand. He turned back to the front entrance, and Marla gave him a little wave, watched as he got on his bike and pedaled off, toward Rev and the church.
His ribs hurt worse as he rode, probably because he’d been clenching his stomach so tight. Breathe, Devon. “Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid,” came to him, from the Gospel of John.
“It does no good to worry your heart about things you can’t control, Devon Robinson,” Mama’d told him from her hospital bed. “God has a plan, and he’ll see it through.”
She was right. He knew she was right. But some days it was hard to see that plan.
Yesterday was one of those days.
He’d come home from Mr. Allen’s shop a little after six, filled with relief that he hadn’t run into T as he slipped in the back door. Missy was on the couch with another girl, watching some dumb reality love show on TV, and he’d grabbed two packets of oatmeal and headed down the hall when the door to the bathroom had opened and then T was standing there.
He tried to hide the oatmeal behind his back, but T was too quick, had spotted him and was prying the packets from his fingers.
“It’s only oatmeal, Uncle T.”
T hissed out a breath. “For a second there, I thought you were tryin’ to rob me.” He tossed the oatmeal packets over his shoulder, and his eyes turned cold then. T bent down, hands on his knees so they were eye level. “I’ll warn you once. Don’t you ever, ever, ever try to rob me. Missy’ll tell you what happens to people who do me dirty, right Missy?”
He’d raised his voice over the TV, and suddenly Missy was there, a nervous laugh on her lips. She slid past Devon, wrapped her blue-tipped fingers around T’s bicep. Her nail polish was starting to peel at the tips. Up close he could see her right eye was purple.
“Come on, baby, come sit down. I’ve been missing you.”
“Tell Devon here what happens to people who try to rob me.”
Missy looked from T to Devon. Then, her eyes losing all spark,she slowly sliced a finger across her neck.
Devon swallowed. “Got it.”
“Got it, sir.”
“Got it, Uncle Terrence sir.”
T nodded, and for a moment Devon thought he’d be free, be able to continue on his way to Memaw’s room.
But his uncle had other ideas.
“Come on in here, Devon. Time you learned the family biz’ness.”
At the table, T made him sit there and watch as he counted out ten small white pills into tiny plastic bags, then pressed the air out with a contraption.
“This here’s called a food sealer. Stick the bag in, press the lever, cha-ching. Product done. Time fo’ the dividends. Next.”
Devon watched his uncle. “Memaw would have a fit if she saw you.”
“Memaw can’t even get out tha bed, so I guess we don’t have to worry about that, feel me?” T’s lips were thin as he sealed another bag tight. Devon glanced at the kitchen stove, wondered how many minutes he’d have to watch before T got bored of playing uncle and let him go. “Your turn.”
“Wait, wha … ? Uncle T I can’t do tha—”
“You can and you will.” The words were clipped.
“I—no.”
The chair screeched on the kitchen linoleum, and T loomed over him.
“Oh, yes.”
Somehow, the whisper was scarier than if he’d yelled. Devon’s heart thudded.
“I’m not doing it.”
