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“Aye,” the man beside him called, a little louder than necessary.

“Yeah,” Banshee seconded, without looking at any of us.

“Fuck yeah!” Chef boomed, and I couldn’t help but feel he only did so because of our resistance to the idea.

“Vick got a proxy?” Mark looked around the table.

“Yeah. He votes yes,” Chef spoke up.

“Bullshit, you don’t know his mind, and besides, he doesn't get a vote from the penitentiary,” Montana scoffed.

“You make the rules now?” Mark sucked his teeth.

Montana huffed, and his lips turned into a thin line.

“Right. We’re settled then.” Mark smiled.

“Settled for what, what the fuck are we doing…. Guns, pussy, dope?” Montana exclaimed.

Mark snorted and rose from his seat without answering. He moved for the door and slipped out as if no one had spoken at all.

“What the fuck is that?” Montana cried.

All I could do was shake my head and accept that shit had just gotten real.

Chapter Four

We Don’t Look Away

Brenna

“Momma, I’m going outside.” The sudden adolescent sound of Oakland’s voice drew me back to the present.

The water I’d been scrubbing dishes in had long since turned cold. I plucked my wrinkled hands out of the sink and dried them on a towel before calling out, “Don’t go far. Breakfast will be on in a bit.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he returned, the screen door banging after him.

He was a good boy. A blessing. I swallowed the pang of emotion that raced to the surface.

I could do this.

I could do right by Oakland and still raise him proper. I’d figure out how to do this by myself.

I exhaled, forcing some of the worry out in a slow, stretched breath. I grabbed some eggs from the refrigerator and took out a fresh package of bacon. I’d been going through the motions of each day without much thought.

Even now, I was standing at the stove while there was still dew on the grass, as if I had intention of going to church with Patrick as we had every Sunday morning from the day I married him, until the week he died.

Another sigh rocked my body as I realized the bacon was getting a little too crisp. I grabbed a fork, hooked a slice and began to pull them out one by one. Patrick had liked his bacon well done. No one else in the house ever had. I looked over the crunchy strips and shook my head. At least the eggs would be well flavored in the grease, I told myself.

I mixed them quickly, poured them into the pan after draining away a bit of the grease, and set to cooking.

“Oakland,” I hollered, when they were a breath away from being done.

He appeared at the screen door a few moments later, red cheeked with a hint of a smile on his face. I instantly forced one in return for his benefit.

“Come on in, honey. Wash your hands.” I nodded, encouraging him toward the kitchen sink.

He did as I asked, never one I needed to tell twice.