“You know the rules, Dougie,” Skeeter says. “In situations like these, Birdie decides.”
The three of us went to live with Birdie when I was eight years old. Shortly after Pop was arrested, Ma loaded the three of us into her Honda Civic, drove across Texas and dumped us at Birdie’s—a distant cousin we’d never met. Ma said she needed to go find herself. Which wasn’t true. The only thing Ma needed to go find was another h****n fix.
Three young kids—a thing like that would be a burden to most folks.
But not Birdie.
She told us we were her gift from God. The woman always made us feel special that way. She fed us, clothed us, worked hard to find creative ways to keep us out of trouble. None of these things were easy on a librarian’s salary.
One summer, she managed to wrangle up three metal
