Something was happening to Duke. Almost like he was melting.
Jake thought, What’s wrong with you?
The words seemed to project themselves beyond his own mind.
Yo Jake, nothing. Nothing at all. Come on, let’s go. Let’s blow this joint.
The words were his old man’s. A favorite phrase that snapped him back to his bedroom, simultaneously shrouding the image of Duke again.
He let the curtains fall, but it failed to obscure the image of the melting hero in his head.
Jake almost yelled for his dad, but stopped short. What would be the point? A scenario ran through his mind where Jake’s dad would slap him over and over again, telling him that he didn’t care if the goddamn Pope was outside—if Jake didn’t stop bothering him with stupid s**t, he would take Jake’s bike and toys to the town dump a
