“I’m so sorry,” he said, but, like, who cared? It had happened and it hadn’t quite happened, and I felt like I was safe now. I thought maybe it could go back to how it had been. I didn’t know what else to say or do.

“The edge is a shantytown filled with gold seekers,” I said, and Zeke said, “Oh, Frankie, I’m so sorry,” and I said, “Shut up. The edge? The edge? It’s a shantytown, okay? Just shut up for a second and breathe. The edge is a shantytown filled with gold seekers. We are fugitives, and the law is skinny with hunger for us.”

“Okay,” he said, “okay.”

“We are fugitives, Zeke. We are fugitives. We are fugitives. We are fugitives, and the law is skinny with hunger for us.”

“Okay,” Zeke said, a kind of submission. “Okay, Frankie.”

“No, just, let me do it. The edge is a shantytown filled with gold seekers,” I kept going. I said it ten times. Twenty times? I don’t remember. I didn’t know how long we’d been there. I had to call my mom soon, find a pay phone to let her know that I was coming home. I was going back to Coalfield, and nothing had changed. As long as I kept saying the phrase, nothing would change. Zeke would not leave. He would not hurt me. He would not hurt himself. I said it again. And again. Zeke had stopped crying. I kept saying it, and he finally looked up at me, made eye contact. I kept saying it. Again and again, until he knew. Until he knew that I’d never stop saying it. For as long as we lived, I would never stop saying it. And we would live forever. So it would go on forever. It would never stop.

I said it again. And again. The edge is a shantytown filled with gold seekers. We are fugitives, and the law is skinny with hunger for us. I’m saying it right now. I’ve never stopped saying it.

Eleven

HOW ELSE COULD IT HAVE ENDED? I DROPPED OFF ZEKE, AND HE didn’t even say goodbye. And when I got home, my brothers were in the living room and my mom was on the phone pacing in circles, asking, “How hurt are you?”

“What’s . . . what’s happening?” I asked.