“You are doing it.” T’s hand shot out, clamped his arm tight, then tighter, until it was so tight Devon wanted to scream. But he held it together. “Sit.”
Devon didn’t move.
“I said, sit.” T shoved him roughly into the chair, pressed both his hands on the top of Devon’s shoulders. “My guy didn’t show, so tonight you get to work for me. Hop to it.”
Devon’s eyes started to burn. God, please don’t let me cry.
“Uncle T, please—” He hated the way his voice cracked. Hated the lump in his throat.
“Uncle T nothin’. You eatin’ my food, you gonna earn it like everyone else. Go.”
And so he did, counting them out, sealing them in, pressing them tight. Twenty-five in all before T’s guy Neeson showed, and T got bored and yanked Devon up and pushed him out of the kitchen.
“Go on, run to your Memaw and tell her how T turned you to the dark side,” he said as the push took Devon so far he stumbled, crashed hard into the end table, knocking over one of the aluminum cans. The fall hurt bad, and Devon lay there a moment, wondering if he’d broken something, watching pale liquid pool from the can onto the carpet. Missy and her friend just watched their show and laughed at whatever was on the screen. They didn’t even waste a glance his way.
“Remember—you’re an accomplice now,” T said from the doorway to the kitchen as Devon slowly got to his feet. “You go running to the cops, ratting me out, it’s your neck on the line, too. I got your fingerprints. I got juice. We’ll call it collateral.”
T held up a baggie and grinned, and Devon felt like he was going to throw up then. Barely made it to the bathroom in time before everything he’d eaten for afternoon snack came out in a tumble.
He rinsed his mouth out with cool water from the bathroom sink, and stood on his tiptoes to lift his shirt and see in the mirror if there was any damage. So far so good, but he imagined there’dbe a huge bruise tomorrow.
Then he crept down the hall on tiptoe, looking over his shoulder, sure any second T would drag him back out for more and worse.
But T didn’t. And Devon found the oatmeal packets right by Memaw’s door, and then he was inside her room, and it was locked and he was safe.
Safe.
He took a shuddery breath and winced at the pull in his side, then another breath.
Memaw was asleep, a soft snore escaping her lips, and he stared down at her, watching her chest rise and fall, watching as her bony, twisty hands rested peacefully against the thin white blanket wrapped snugly around her.
Too late he realized he’d left his backpack with his Bible out in the living room, hoped against hope that T and his friends would leave his stuff alone and he could sneak out later for them when everything was over and done with.
Accomplice. T’s words came back to him when he was huddled against Memaw’s dresser, carefully pouring a packet of oatmeal into the water glass from her bedside. There had been a spoon, too, and he stirred the mixture quietly, not wanting to wake her just yet.
T was no dummy, that was for sure. Not that Devon had been planning on telling. But now he knew he couldn’t, and the feeling made him feel trapped, like a turtle in a tiny box, stuck. Alone.
Helpless.
He swallowed, and his throat burned, ached. Tears began to well, and he fought them back, but then they were there, silent and thick, sliding down his cheeks, and he was gasping for air, stilling himself. Crying didn’t work. He’d known that for a long time. But he had yet to figure out what did work.
The next morning when he woke, T had taped a note to the bathroom door.
“P.S. Got you on video, too.”
Now, as he pedaled toward church to help Rev with setup for tomorrow’s Friday Night Giveaway, ribs aching from the fall and from another night on the floor, he racked his brain for a comforting scripture, came up dry. Help me, God. Help me and help Memaw.
“You okay, Dev?” Rev asked him when he caught him wincing as they scooted one of the long tables against the wall.
“Yeah, slept wrong last night.” Devon made a face and rolled his eyes, tried to act like his ribs weren’t killing him.
The pain was worse now that he was moving around, shifting tables this way and that. But he’d promised Rev, and if he begged off early, Rev would have to do it alone or worse—ask questions. And the way he was feeling today, he was scared that if he got asked too many questions, he’d break and the whole thing would be out in the open.
He’d almost let some stuff slip Sunday, when he’d biked out to the river to that fishing hole to see JJ and his dad. They’d gone off to JJ’s hiding spot after lunch, the two of them, on the north end of the river, and JJ’d asked him about his Memaw, told him about his own granny, who’d passed a couple years ago. Devon had come this close to saying too much. Had almost wanted to.
But he hadn’t. He didn’t want to, not really. He just needed to keep it together. Tough it out. Talking wouldn’t help anything. T would leave eventually. He always did. He had to.
Now, wiping his brow, Rev laughed. “You’re too young to get those kind of aches and pains. Got to be at least my age, though don’t you go telling Marla I said that. She near has me off to the doctor every time my knee acts up.”
