I laughed. “Shut up.”

JP finished his sandwich. “You going to make one?”

“I’m not hungry.” I flicked my cigarette.

“I call David’s sandwich.” JP went back to the kitchen.

Tyson stood. “Don’t, you’ve used most of the bologna.”

“Relax, you have an unopened package of it in the fridge drawer.”

Tyson could do nothing but watch while JP piled on the fixings.

“Sorry about your face, David,” Tyson said.

“No worries.” I passed him the cigarette.

JP sat in the rocking chair in the living room. “See this, skeejins.” He pointed to his sandwich. “This is an Indian sandwich. We got some nice thick white bread, a thin layer of mayonnaise, a dab of ketchup, some shredded cheddar cheese, and then three slices of bologna.” He took a bite.

“How does that make it an Indian sandwich?” I said.

JP looked at me and then at his sandwich. “Because I’m eating it, that’s why. Don’t ask stupid questions, David.”

Tyson and I laughed.

I split one more cigarette with Tyson and JP before I decided to go home. When the smoke was butted I went to Tyson’s bathroom and peeled the Band-Aid from my face. In front of the mirror, the cut looked worse than earlier, but better without the Band-Aid. The chance my mother noticed the cut was less without the Band-Aid, but if she did notice it, I preferred that she see it for what it was: a wound.

Frick’s truck was gone from the driveway when I got home. The wind blew, and yellow and orange leaves twirled in the road. I opened the mailbox at the beginning of the driveway. Nothing but a dead hornet that had been there for months.

Mom was sitting in her rocking chair with the TV remote in her hand. “Where’s the mail?”

I unzipped my jacket. “There was nothing.”

Mom stood, and she walked with a limp. Arthritis. She was as hot as the woodstove. “Where’s the phone,” she said, but it wasn’t a question.

I made it down the hallway to my room before she spoke: “Come back and call your father.”

I tossed my jacket on my bed.

“Here.” She handed me the phone and I dialed his number.

It rang. Mom hovered not too close, but close enough. I turned my bruised and split face the other direction. The phone rang. Mom looked in the cabinet under the sink where she kept all the poisonous fluids. I wondered how many times she had checked under there today. The phone rang. I hoped he’d answer, an end for today. Like undone chores, these missed calls piled up.