“You want to tell me who did it?” I asked, eyes fixed on the road.
Silence.
“Luther?” I pressed.
He didn’t answer, but I knew. Luther always went too far, always needed to prove himself. I made a note to deal with him later.
“I’m taking you home,” I said. “Ma can patch you up.”
He didn’t argue. That was the most surprising part. Most people wanted to fight, want to keep their pride even if it killed them. Newt just let it happen.
It made me uneasy, how easy he gave in.
We drove in silence. The trees flashed by, sunlight flickering through them like the strobe on a warning beacon. The air in the cab was thick with things unsaid. I could feel his eyes on me, skimming my profile when he thought I wouldn’t notice.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, barely audible.
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
I thought about lying, but it was pointless. “Because you’re mine to protect, whether you like it or not.”
I don’t know when I had decided that, but I knew it was true.
Newt flinched, then turned away, but not before I caught the hint of a smile. Not a happy one. More like relief.
We reached the farm. I parked by the side entrance, out of sight from the front porch. Ma would be baking, her radar dulled by the rhythms of dough and yeast, which gave me at least five minutes to get Newt inside and cleaned up.
I led him through the mudroom, then to the guest bathroom. The mirror above the sink was cracked, but it reflectedeverything I needed. I found peroxide and gauze in the medicine cabinet, a holdover from years of scraped knees and busted lips.
“Sit,” I ordered.
He did.
I wet a towel with hot water and started in on the worst of the blood. He hissed, but didn’t complain.
“You ever been in a fight?” I asked.
He snorted. “I’ve lost plenty.”
“First rule is to keep your hands up.”
He smiled, barely. “Didn’t have much warning.”
“Second rule,” I said, “is to hit back twice as hard.”
His smile faded. He looked at the floor, then at my hands, still cradling his jaw.
“I’m not like you,” he said.
I didn’t disagree. Instead, I dabbed at the split in his lip, careful not to break the skin more.
“You’re better than me,” I said. “You don’t need to be like me.”
He swallowed. “If you say so.”
I finished with the gauze, taped a butterfly closure on his cheek. When I was done, I stepped back, washed my hands, and dried them on my jeans.
