Chapter 9: What He Never Called

Boone moved before I could breathe.

He had his pants up and his shirt on in the dark, and he pointed at the lock and then at the floor, and I understood.

Stay.

He slid out of my room and eased the door shut behind him.

I heard the faucet in the kitchen start to run.

Overhead, my father's boots thudded down the upstairs hall, and the stairs groaned, and his voice came from the kitchen doorway.

"Boone? What are you doing down here?"

"Couldn't sleep," Boone said. His voice was perfectly steady. "Glass of water."

"The pipes woke me. Is that the faucet?"

"I think it's the old one."

"I'll look at it Monday." A pause. "You all right? You look like hell."

"Strange bed."

"It's the same bed it's been for ten years."

"Then I'm getting old."

My father laughed, quietly, and went back up.

I lay with my face in the pillow and shook, and I could not tell if it was laughter or fear.

At six, I came into the kitchen in my robe, and Dad was already gone to open the store.

There was a note on the counter in his square handwriting.

Boone is doing the steps. Feed him.

Through the window I could see him on the front walk with a pry bar, pulling up the old treads.

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