Decker peeked inside the living room. His daughter was now officially a young lady. Her lanky frame had softened into the gentle curves of womanhood. Her skin glowed with health, her hazel eyes sparked with youthful passion. She’d grown her hair out, the red locks grazing her shoulders. She looked down the hallway and when their eyes met, she broke into a radiant smile.

She cocked her hip and said, “Well, are you coming out or what?”

All Decker could do was grin. He felt all warm inside. Cindy’s voice did that to him every time.

Stretched out on an unmade bed, Noam watched Hersh straighten his tie while looking in the bedroom mirror. It was old and cracked and the surface dull. Another dump, he thought, the room smelling as stale as a laundry hamper. At first, he welcomed the sloppiness. What a change from his mother’s own fastidiousness. But now the dumps were just depressing—like everything else he and Hersh had done. All of it was hateful and depressing.

He knew it was only a matter of time before Hersh would want to hit the streets again. He just didn’t expect it to come so quickly. He was calm: The driving need to take his own life had faded.

Hersh wanted to score again. Noam didn’t want to hurt any more people. Hashem knew he didn’t want to do that. But he didn’t want to die or go to jail. Whenever Hersh spoke, an awful nausea churned up Noam’s stomach. His head began to throb.

“Yo, Nick-O,” Hersh said. “We gotta get movin’, ya know?”

Noam didn’t respond.

“Cha’ hear what I said, Bud?”

“Yeah, I heard you,” Noam said.

“So, we gonna make some plans or what?” Hersh said.

Noam looked up. “I thought you said we scored enough so we don’t have to do it for a while.”

“Duds cost money,” Hersh said.

Noam returned his eyes to his book, but he couldn’t concentrate on the words. Think, he yelled to himself. Think! Think! He said, “Couldn’t we use the guy’s credit cards?”

“I threw them all away with the wallet,” Hersh said. “Can’t use stolen cards. They can be traced.”

“Well, we could use them and then split—”

“Forget it,” Hersh said. “Too messy.”

“But killing someone is clean?”

Hersh pounced on the bed and slammed the book out of Noam’s hands. He grabbed Noam by the shirt and pulled his face close to his nose. “You fucked up!” he whispered, spittle spraying the teenager’s face. “If you wouldna fucked up, that guy would be walkin’ today.”

Noam felt his heart beating out of his chest, but he forced himself to remain rigid. Hersh held him close for a moment, then pushed him down on the bed.