“Did we —” she starts.
“No,” I say. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
*
I let T. J. sleep most of the day, but when he gets up around two in the afternoon, I tell him we’re not finished talking.
“I’m sorry for what I did,” I say. “Everything. All of it. But you’ve got stop to this s**t. It’s gonna end badly. Take my word for it.”
He does me the courtesy of at least letting me finish without rolling his eyes or walking out.
“You ever shot anyone?” he asks.
“Not that I know of,” I say. “But I’ve been shot at a few times.” I grin, an attempt at adding some levity to a topic far too heavy for me to deal with right now. But it’s no use. We’re having a real conversation.
“That why you got the piece?”
I think about the nights spent sitting outside his mother’s house, the thoughts I try to d
