“Shit!” his dad said, trying to tear his son’s hands from his face, but Zeke was like a rabid squirrel. I ran forward and kicked his father as hard as I could, and his knee buckled and he was on the floor. It had nothing to do with my own dad. I just so badly wanted to hurt the person who had hurt Zeke. “Shit!” he shouted again.

“I’m calling the cops!” the lady yelled, but Zeke’s dad shouted, “Sheila, are you crazy? Don’t do that!”

“Come on,” I said to Zeke, who finally pulled his hands from his father’s face. There were these jagged little cuts all over his face, and I could see this flap of skin stuck on Zeke’s fingernail.

We ran back to the car, and I burned rubber pulling away. We were both nearly hyperventilating, and I was going fifty-five miles per hour in a residential area, but I just kept going. I blew right through a stop sign and there was an old lady walking her dog who shouted at me, but I screamed, “Fuck off!” and kept going. Finally, after a few miles, I pulled into the empty parking lot of some auto parts store that had gone out of business.

“Oh, fuck,” Zeke said, his whole body tensed like he was waiting for something to hit him. “We are so fucked.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “You did the right thing.”

“I just . . . Frankie, I’m so sad,” he said, and he started sobbing.

“It’s okay,” I told him. He was shuddering, making these little screechy sounds as he tried to breathe. It scared me. “It’ll be okay.”

“My whole life,” he said, but there was nothing else for a few seconds, just more sobs. “I wish I was dead.”

“No,” I said. “No, if you died, Zeke. If you died, I’d kill myself. Don’t die. Okay? Don’t die. You can keep living, okay? I’m alive, right? You think your life is worse than mine?”

“What do I do?” he asked, like I knew. Like he truly believed in me.