—Ronnie felt the tears running down his face as he squeezed Jimmy’s hand, because he Knew that this time was different, this time he had to take the Hurting away like a sponge absorbing water, slow and steady, not with a quick bird-snap, Jimmy was moving beyond the pain now, he couldn’t feel anything except Ronnie’s hand in his, and it was good, this feeling, it was nice and warm and gentle, it made him happy, but he was getting cold, so Ronnie sat down in the mud and cradled Jimmy’s head on his lap, stroking the boy’s blood-slopped hair back from what was left of his forehead, rocking him back and forth, back and forth, a mother with her newborn in a rocking chair, back and forth, back and forth, shhh, there, there, it’ll be okay, it’ll be gone soon, you won’t Hurt anymore, just close your eyes and I will sing you a lullaby…but then Ronnie realized that he didn’t know any lullabies, no one ever sang lullabies to unwanted sped ree-tard babies, so he did the next best thing; he leaned down and pressed his lips close against Jimmy’s remaining ear and began to hum “Hello, Goodbye” hoping that he stayed in tune because he’d never been much of a singer, and for a few brief moments they remained that way, the two of them in that cold, muddy, dark, filthy alley, surrounded by garbage and rats and the deepening shadows of uncaring night, but they were neither of them a part of it now, they were untouchable, separated from the Hurt and loneliness, outside and above all harm: one ree-tard sped humming an old Beatles song (in tune) and a little boy who closed his eyes a few minutes before midnight on his seventh birthday, feeling no pain, not afraid, not anymore, and trying to smile because it was nice to have a friend who wasn’t just on paper, and that made this the best birthday ever.

Ronnie continued to sing and to rock Jimmy for several minutes after the boy had died before he simply…stopped, just sitting there, the two of them a tableau amidst the trash.

There were still tears in Ronnie’s eyes, but these were different than before; where before he’d been weeping from the overwhelming pain and loneliness he’d felt from Jimmy, now Ronnie wept in rage, for the very last thing he’d seen as the Hurting passed from Jimmy to him was the face of Jimmy’s dad. And it was a face that was going to be easy for Ronnie to remember, because he’d seen it before. (“Excuse me, friend—can you shine some of the light over here so’s I can read this goddamned paper? Or maybe I could borrow it for a few minutes? Yeah? Hey, thanks. I owe you a beer.”)

Three days in a row he’d worked alongside Jimmy’s dad; and it was Jimmy’s dad who was always suggesting to everyone that they go “…grab a few brews…” after work.