His dad took his call, but being the one Chris got his responsibility from, he said he felt like it would help Chris grow up to finally answer for his actions. He stayed in there eight months before the DA remembered Chris was alive. They dropped the charge to a misdemeanor and gave him time served but he was never the same after that. “All I ever did was hit that kid two times,” he would say, and try to change the subject.

At those words the man collapsed his upper body on the counter across from Sanders, raising his cuffed hands to his round face in sorrow. “Naw, sir, please, please, oh lord,” the man cried. “I’m sorry, sir, please, I never done nothing like this … oh lord, please …” Stewart jerked at the man’s upper arm. “Stand up there and listen to the judge,” he said as he pointed to Sanders through the window.

The excitement bit into him. The electric tingle of fear as he waited to hear a voice calling him to stop, footsteps rushing in syncopated loss prevention.

Back at the table of dreams the smaller children chattered with laughter. I was pleased with their animated health. The rose colored vitality exuded from their round cheeks and hearty smiles. Across the table, though, the eldest gazed sternly upon me. At once he began to speak.

“Daddy, what’s going on?” she screamed over the top of Dink Fretwell’s squealing white walls. Tom Harris lowered the Mossberg to the ground and looked past Tristan to her mother who stood smoking a Winston in the doorway.