Billie looked up. The bell hadn’t sounded but the door stood open nonetheless. Chris Stiles held it propped with his foot. Everyone turned to stare at the mystery man, silhouetted in the doorway by the street lamps outside. Billie started to wave hello but hesitated, her anxiousness giving way to apprehension. Why hadn’t the bell rung?

“Hi,” he said. “Is that chili I smell?”

“Of course,” Lou snapped, “so get in here and shut the door. You’re letting the warm air out.”

“I’ll buy that,” he nodded, “but do you have enough for three?” He motioned outside. Two figures shuffled along the display window and stepped past him. Stiles closed the door behind them, and this time the bell sounded.

Billie’s mouth went slack as Del and Bart managed a weak “Hi, Mom.” There was no argument: they looked awful. Both wore jackets smeared with dirt and leaking wispy down from half a dozen rips. The bandages on Bart’s neck had absorbed a spot of blood, and that single spot seemed to magnify the severity of the wound fives times at least. He just gave them a lopsided grin and tried not to move his swollen, discolored jaw any more than he had to.

“How’re you all doin’?” Del said to break the silence. Then everyone came rushing over to see to them, or almost everyone. Frank Sipes looked concerned but didn’t stray from his stool. George Bailey didn’t move a muscle, not even to turn and look.

Billie ushered the boys to the nearest table, ignoring their assurances that it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Everyone hovered around them. Sharon Lou brought a first-aid kit from under the counter, though their wounds appeared already well tended. Ted offered to take his Slugger to the perpetrators, several times if necessary. Charlie Bean just stood nearby, listening, watching Stiles. “Are you all right?” Billie asked, touching their bandages and flinching for them.

“We’re fine, Mom.”

“Are you sure? Maybe we should call Dr. Collins. . . .”

“I said we’re okay, Mom! Jeez, don’t make such a federal case out of it!”

Stiles spoke up. “I think they’re all right, Billie.”

“Oh?” Bean raised an eyebrow. “You done much doctoring, Mr. Stiles?”

“Just the battlefield variety. Vietnam.” Bean nodded and fell silent once again. “Billie, I’d feel better if you get them a checkup in the morning.”

The pretty young mother suddenly turned stern and grabbed her youngest son by the shoulders. “All right, young man,” she demanded. “What the hell happened?!”

“Yeah,” echoed Frank, “what the hell happened?!”

“We got into a fight.”

“That’s obvious. With who?”

“I don’t know. Can I have something to eat?”

“The whole story this time. Did Jay Simpson have something to do with this? I knew that kid was trouble—”