Page 81 of Lone Wolf

He did.

A fresh humidity from a recently cracked dishwasher heavied the air of the small apartment. There were vacuum lines in the carpet, and the counters were wiped clean, and an insulated lunch bag and thermos rested on a dish-drying mat by the kitchen sink. On the garage-sale desk in the corner, a stapler pinned down a stack of bills that looked taller than a month’s worth.

In the corner of the living room, a shrine to the missing dog had been erected atop two stacked shoe boxes. An Our Lady of Perpetual Help veladora flickered, giving off a discordant hint of coconut. The candle flame uplit a low-quality printout of Loco’s lolling tongue and mildly schizophrenic face.

Brianna turned to face Evan in front of the couch. She didn’t invite him to sit.

She crossed her arms, thickened dysmorphically by the terry bathrobe sleeves. “Well?”

“I found Andre where you said. Got him home. He’s okay.”

Her eyes darted away but he swore he read relief in them. She had thumbprint-size bruises beneath her lids, and in the dim light she looked worn-down, single-mom exhausted. “Was it ugly?”

“Yeah,” Evan said.

A door creaked behind Evan and then Sofia padded out. She wore a lime-green sleeping gown with tutu frills and a matching hair band.

“Is Dad okay?”

Evan said, “He’s okay.”

“Was he drinking?”

Evan looked at Brianna, got back a steely-eyed look. He said, “Yes.”

“Too much?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why he didn’t call me?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes glistened and her mouth bunched up with angry determination. “’Cuz he cares about drinking more than me?”

“No.”

“Why’d he do it then? Get drunk instead of calling me like he promised? Like he was supposed to?”

“I don’t know,” Evan said. “People are messy. I don’t understand them.”

Sofia said, “That’s fucked up.”

The word in her little girl mouth sounded even more profane. And appropriate.

“Yeah,” Evan said. “It is fucked up.”

She eased forward on her bare feet one step, two, and then leaned into Evan. Just: tilted until her forehead met his sternum, arms dangling in a zombie hang between them. She wanted something. Proximity? Contact? Comfort?

She’d startled him, his arms floating idiotically up at his sides as if he’d just jumped off a cliff and was readying to flap his way to safety.

Behind Sofia’s back, Brianna implored him with raised eyebrows and an emphatic jerk of her splayed fingers: Do something, stupid. He felt as men have felt since time immemorial beneath the glare of superior feminine EQ —clueless and incomplete. Resetting, he lowered one arm across Sofia’s shoulders and gave the child a pat on her back. It was hard to believe the frailty of her bones beneath the skin, the ridge of the spine, the posterior ribs—like petting a baby bird.

Sofia didn’t move. She smelled like shampoo and soap.

“Bed now,” Brianna said, her voice thick. “Go on.”

Sofia tilted her weight back onto her heels and headed toward her room. She hesitated at the little altar, hit her knees, crossed herself, and then rose and scampered down the brief hall. The door closed, extinguishing the lavender glow of a night-light.