Ben turns towards the backseat window to peer inside, obviously doing it to please him. He has to lean close because the glass is tinted, and I can see his faint, squinting reflection as my brother gives me a look. But I am already coming up behind him and grab his hair and shove his face into the glass. There is a loud thuck as if no skin separates the glass and bone. Ben tries to struggle free and nearly pushes me off balance, so I thump his forehead into the glass again. It hits harder than I intended, and I hesitate, but he nearly gets free and pokes my eye in the process. It is all I can do to pin his lower back with my hip, shoving him against the door handle. Tomas tells me to hold him and I manage to get his arms wrapped around the small of his back. As my brother punches his stomach I can feel the blows through his back and his body slouching as his legs give way. I let him fall to the ground.

Pick him up, Tomas tells me.

I grab him by the shoulders and Ben doesn’t resist. He even pushes up to help me.

My brother asks me if I have my ice pick and tells me to set it against him. The silver end indents easily against his soft cheek, jitters in my fingers. Most of his head is turned away from us but I can feel in his shoulders that he is crying.

Tomas leans close to his ear. That was some mean shit you said about our mother.

I can feel Ben’s heartbeat through his warm damp clothing, where I grip his elbows. He tries to keep still, though he has a hard time calming his rapid breathing.

I’m sorry.

It wasn’t me you insulted.

I’m sorry to your mom.

My brother breathes in his ear. She’s poor as shit. And your mother wants eight hundred dollars.

I’m sorry.

For a fucking little scratch.

I’m sorry.

I piss on your mother. Puta.

Tomas taps Ben’s cheek beside the ice pick and Ben’s body jerks.

You got eight hundred dollars inside?

Ben’s eyes widen. No.

You got an awfully expensive wardrobe. You got adult spending habits.

My parents buy the stuff for me. I don’t get it myself.