For some reason my throat feels like it’s squeezing shut, or maybe clogged with glue, and I clear it. It takes me a second to realize it because I’m sad for my uncle … and afraid. “Heart attack,” I manage to get out. “He should be okay.” I lower the baton but keep it extended. “The last thing he said to me before they put him in an ambulance was your name. Why?”

“He asked me to do something for him.” Peaches glances again at the big man moaning on the porch. “Lemme help Billy wipe that shit out of his eyes.”

I consider this for a second, then shrug. I’ve shown all three what I can do and don’t need to be a badass right now. “Okay. Get a pitcher of water and a clean hand towel.”

Peaches goes back inside and I retract the baton and put it back in its holster on my belt, then move across the porch, away from the door and both of Peaches’s men. Dreadlocks is still dreaming on the wicker couch. I draw my CZ and just hold it, the barrel pointing down. “It’ll be okay,” I tell Billy, the big man moaning. “We’ll wash out your eyes.”

Billy is on all fours now, rapidly blinking and shaking his head like a dog that’s bitten into something nasty. “Fuck you,” he manages. I sigh. So much for peacemaking.

PEACHES RETURNS WITH a blue pitcher and a dishcloth and without a glance in my direction takes care of Billy, talking to him in a low voice as he pours water over his face and wipes it away with the dishcloth. It’s oddly comforting, like watching a nurse take care of a child. But the thought of nurses makes me think of Uncle Gavin in the hospital, and I take deep breaths to try to keep relaxed. My nerves are all jittery in the aftermath of our scuffle. I’ve already picked up the sawed-off shotgun and put it on the porch by my feet, and I’m still holding the CZ, although I don’t think I’m going to need either of them.

When Billy is sitting in a chair, still blinking furiously and glaring at me, Peaches goes over to peer at Dreadlocks on the couch. “Man’s gonna have a hella headache when he wakes up,” he says, still not looking at me.

I reach into a pocket on my jumpsuit and pull out a foil packet. “Here,” I say, and when Peaches turns to me I toss him the packet. He catches it and reads the label.

“Acetaminophen?” he says.

“Give him that over the next twenty-four hours,” I say. “No ibuprofen, no aspirin. After that, he can switch to whatever makes him feel better.”