I lead Tammy to the wall of patches and show her ours: a bleeding red heart we all have stitched to our jackets. “This was the first one ever made,” I explain to her, pointing to a ratty piece of felt, roughly carved into a heart. “As you can see, they’ve gotten a lot better since then.”
Tammy nods at the last one down the line. The one we all wear now. “I can see that.” She points to the rest of the collection below. “And these?”
It feels impossible, but I actually almost blush at her question. This is the first real moment of our world’s colliding and showing their difference. “Patches from other gangs,” I explain. “If some guy steps out and gets his ass kicked, we strip his patch and hang it up as a trophy. A badge of honor, you might say.”
I can tell by the look in Tammy’s eyes that
