Nothing.
She knocked again, louder.
“Maybe they’re asleep,” Granny murmured.
They were turning to leave when they heard the sharp thwack of a door lock turning, and then the creak as the metal door opened a crack.
A man in a white tank top and blue jeans peered out behind the door chain, eyes narrowed. The house was dark behind him, and his eyes looked off somehow, as if he’d just woken up. Maybe hewas sick, too. She could hear the faint hum of a television set on in the background.
“Mr. Robinson?” Rebecca’s smile felt tight, and she swallowed hard, stomach clenched. “I’m Rebecca Chastain, and this is my granny, Helen Chastain. We’re friends of Devon’s. He missed camp Friday and we thought maybe he was sick, brought him some chicken soup.”
She held out the soup container, feeling inane.
The man just stared at her, made no move to take the soup.
“I—ah.” She held onto the soup and tried to smile. “Is he home?”
“Kid’s asleep.” His voice was cold, quiet, but with enough of an edge that Rebecca swallowed.
“Okey doke, well, would you mind telling him we stopped by?” The smile froze on her face.
Behind them, a car rolled slowly by, got to the corner, then turned and circled back. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she held the soup out toward him again.
He took a step back. “We don’t need no charity.” The word came out like he’d tasted something bad.
Rebecca felt rather than saw Granny stiffen.
“We’re just friends, just trying to say hi.” Rebecca’s eyes widened, and she held up a hand. “No harm meant.”
“He don’t need no friends, neither. Specially friends like you.”
Granny put a hand on her arm. Time to go. They turned, started back toward the car.
The door shut before they got off the porch, and Rebecca could hear the door lock turning back in place. She shivered, then set the soup down on the porch, left it in case.
“Wow,” Rebecca muttered as she reversed out of the driveway.
Granny exhaled sharply. “Wow is right.”
“I can’t believe Devon lives there, with someone like that.” She clutched the wheel as she drove home the way she’d come, pastrickety houses and rundown yards with stories untold, stories she ached to uncover. She glanced at Granny. “I mean, did you get as much of a bad-news vibe as I did?”
Granny sighed. “I hate to say it, but yes. I did.”
Silence settled over them, and they were past James Watkins and heading toward Main Street when Granny spoke again.
“I think we need to call social services.”
Rebecca nodded. “I do, too. That guy had Class A drug dealer written all over him, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Devon were in trouble. Real trouble.”
“Me, too.”
“I just wish we could talk to him. Figure out some way past the uncle.”
The sound of children laughing in the streets pierced the air as they drove through Dahlia proper now, cruising past sunny, lived-in homes. Outside one, a half-dozen happy children leaped through a sprinkler, a smattering of moms watching and chatting, oblivious to the fact that five minutes away, life for another set of kids was far, far different.
“What about Rev and Marla?” Granny asked. “Surely we’re not the only ones concerned about Devon. They see him a lot more than we do—maybe they have a way to check on him, or know a neighbor who can.”
Rebecca nodded, squinting against the sun. “It’s worth a try.”
