She dashed into the bedroom, grabbed her purse, and closed the bathroom door. Myron patted his back pocket. Her stash was still there. He could hear the sounds of a frantic search coming from the bathroom.

Myron called, “Kitty?”

Footsteps on the front stoop leading to the door jarred him. Myron whipped his head toward the sound. Through the bathroom door, Kitty shouted, “Who’s that?” Working off her panic, Myron pulled his gun, pointing at the door. The knob turned and Mickey entered. Myron quickly lowered the gun.

Mickey looked at his uncle. “What the hell . . . ?”

“Hey, Mickey.” Myron pointed at his name tag. “Or should I say Bob?”

“How did you find us?”

Mickey was scared too. He could hear it in his voice. Anger, yes, but mostly there was fear.

“Where’s my mother?” he demanded.

“She’s in the bathroom.”

He ran over to the door, put his hand on it. “Mom?”

“I’m okay, Mickey.”

Mickey leaned his head on the door and closed his eyes. His voice was unbearably tender. “Mom, please come out.”

“She’ll be okay,” Myron said.

Mickey turned to him, his hands curled into fists. Fifteen years old and ready to take on the world. Or at least, his uncle. Mickey was dark, broad, and had that brooding, dangerous quality that made girls weak at the knees. Myron wondered where the brooding came from and then, looking at the bathroom door, figured that he already knew the answer.

“How did you find us?” Mickey asked again.

“Don’t worry about it. I had to ask your mom some questions.”

“What about?”

“Where’s your father?”

Kitty screamed out, “Don’t tell him!”

He turned back to the door. “Mom? Come out, okay?”

More sounds of the frantic—and as Myron knew, fruitless—search. Kitty started cursing. Mickey turned back to Myron. “Get out.”

“No.”

“What?”

“You’re the fifteen-year-old kid. I’m the adult. The answer is no.”

Kitty was crying now. They could both hear her. “Mickey?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“How did I get home last night?”

Mickey gave a quick glare back at Myron. “I got you.”

“Did you put me to bed?”

Mickey clearly did not like having this conversation in front of Myron. He tried to whisper through the door, as though Myron wouldn’t be able to hear. “Yes.”

Myron just shook his head.

Kitty asked, her tone nearly a fevered pitch now, “Did you go through my purse?”

Myron took that one. “No, Kitty, I did.”

Mickey turned and faced his uncle full-on. Myron reached into his back pocket and pulled out the heroin. The bathroom door opened. Kitty stomped out and said, “Give that to me.”

“Not a chance.”

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are—”

“I’ve had enough,” Myron said. “You’re a junkie. He’s a kid. You’re both coming with me.”

“You don’t tell us what to do,” Mickey said.