Now I can see over Greta’s head. The sun has come out and the daylight nearly blinds me, and my brother stands there over Greta and Eddy. His arms crossed, the stubble on his shaved head giving a rough edge to his silhouette.

I get up and stare down at Eddy.

Let’s go, I tell my brother.

Tomas doesn’t move. Where’s the foil?

What?

The foil.

He does not seem in any hurry to leave. I think it’s under the car, I say. Let’s just go.

Get it.

I stare at him. He’s lying in front of it, I say, nodding towards Eddy, who eyes the dog again.

So move him.

He’s bleeding.

If you don’t lick him you won’t get the AIDS.

I shake my head. I’m not touching him.

He picks up the tire iron I dropped. He hands it out towards me. I’m not telling you to touch him, Junior. I want you to beat him out of the way.

I shake my head. Tomas gives me a look but steps towards Eddy and sets the sole of his foot against his shoulder and begins to shove him over but Eddy quickly crawls a foot or two out of the way. My brother reaches under the car and grabs the stash. Then he looks down on Eddy.

You were going to knife my brother, he says to him.

No I wasn’t.

Eddy, he shakes his head. Don’t even try.

My brother has a steel-toed boot. When he descends on him, Eddy is all curled up against the corner, and for a moment I see Eddy’s eyes pleading for my help. Then he covers his face. Tomas kicks the back of Eddy’s knuckles and they look crooked and broken, bleeding, the skin torn off the thumb. The sound of his boot slapping into Eddy’s back and legs sounds like a hammer thumping into raw meat.

IV

We don’t talk as we bound over alley gutters, our tires slamming into potholes and the front bumper scraping asphalt. Beside me Greta pants, her tail thumping excitedly against the seat as I hug her. She looks back and forth between Tomas and me, then scrambles to the window and watches people and dogs we pass, then comes back to nuzzle me so I will scratch her face. The fur about her mouth is damp with blood, and a piece of tattered shirt sticks to her gums. But I hug her tight.

On the window she has left red smudges which glow like translucent rose petals clinging to the glass.

Don’t look so deflated, Junior.

I’m not deflated.

He gives me a long looking-over.

Okay, sure.

I try to sit up straighter, without letting him notice I am moving. We pass a black retriever and Greta leaps at the glass, her nails clicking against it like pennies.