“And that wouldn’t bother you?” Lucas stubbed the cigarette out under his boot. “That wouldn’t fucking bother you to see that asshole’s face, after he did this —” He tapped my jaw with his knuckles, right where a scar remained. “— and this?” Another tap, another scar, and his attitude was starting to raise my blood pressure.

If he’d touched my face like that a few years ago, I would have swung without thinking. It had happened before, because Lucas had no impulse control when he was like this, and I had no control over those fight-or-flight spikes that inevitably leaned toward fight.

I’d gotten better, I’d made myself better. Pills, meditation, therapy, whatever it took. I wasn’t going to continue the cycle my dad had roped me into.

“Lucas, you gotta chill.” I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep them under control. “You’re a level ten right now, man. You have to bring it down. Otherwise I can’t talk to you.”

He exhaled furiously as he paced, then rubbed his hand over his buzzed hair. After a moment, he stood still and took another deep breath.

“Right, right, sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, Manson, you know, I — You know I’m sorry.”

He fell silent, giving himself a few moments to get his thoughts back in order. Haribo came to sit by my foot, and I reached down, giving him a scratch behind the ears.

“There’s plenty of people in this town I don’t like seeing either,” I said. “But we’ll all be there. Who’s going to fuck with all of us together?”

“Some asshole who doesn’t know what’s good for them, probably.” He shook his head, but the tension had drained out of his face.

“Then, you’ll still come?” He gave me an uncertain look, grimacing. “Come on, I know you don’t want to sit at home and sulk.”

He shoved my shoulder with a laugh. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But no guarantees that I’ll be well-behaved. Are you going to get your ass to work soon or what?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. Let me go grab yesterday’s mail first. Some assholes have been stealing it again.” He just waved his arm at me over his shoulder as he stalked back into the garage.

A narrow dirt road led past our house, shaded by walnut trees. I followed it to the main road, Route 15, wiping the sweat from my forehead. I couldn’t wait for summer to be over with; I wasn’t built for this heat. I was looking forward to the cooler, drier autumn days.

“Goddamn it,” I groaned when I found the mailbox knocked over on its side, its wooden post splintered in half, the metal box mangled. It looked like someone had slammed into it with their truck — likely on purpose.

“Motherfuckers.” I picked the mailbox out of the weeds and leaned it against what remained of its post. Yet another thing we’d have to find time to fix. I wrenched open the door, breaking it off in the process and tossing it away. The mail was gone too. Fantastic.