Mom sniffed daintily. “Do you think your mothers have forgotten the way you used to stomp and scowl around this house as a teenager every time we asked you to clean your room?”

I hesitated. Debated my choices. “No, ma’am. I know you haven’t forgotten.”

“That’s what I thought,” she replied.

I fought the urge to make the face they were all referring to. The look that newspapers claimed was harsh enough to strip paint from your walls had no effect on the women who’d raised me.

“Besides, Dean is just a teddy bear,” Alice added, unhelpfully. “He’s as cuddly as a kitten. He only likes to act scary—we all know that.”

I raised my eyes to the sky. “I am very tough and scary,” I said beneath my breath. To the group of senior citizens smirking at me, I said, “Whether or not I’m glaring at it, I’ll force the city to follow through. Then it’ll be out of our hands.”

Mom walked over. I bent low so she could kiss my cheek. “You’re a good son, Dean. You know we trust you, right?”

My throat went tight. I nodded, said, “Uh-huh.”

And then I spun on my heel and headed toward my next job. An odd job. Because the thing I loved the most, my whole identity and all of my passion, had been boxing. But even boxers much older than me understood the short expiration date on our dreams.

And the night I’d fought Bobby McKee—the night that changed everything—had sped up that expiration date before I was able to process that had been my last fight, my last time stepping through those ropes, feeling the heat and pressure of those spotlights.

The last time enjoying the electric lightning bolt of power zapping through my body.

You remember, right? This neighborhood’s memory was long and permanent. I’d always be known as the local boy who’d quit pro boxing just as he was about to be a champion. And who’d been drifting about ever since, with no sense of direction.

It was hard to escape the clutches of that permanent memory.

Most folks around here would say it was damn near impossible.

4. Tabitha

Four

Tabitha

“Okay, three.”

“Wait.”

“We can’t wait. We’re doing a shot countdown. We’ve got momentum to keep up.”

“Half of mine just spilled down my hand.” My sister—pink cheeked and a little extra giggly—mopped up drops of tequila from the side of her wrist. “Okay, okay. Now I’m ready.”

“Two,” I said.

Alexis burst out laughing. I kicked her under the table. “You’re as bad as Kathleen when she makes us go drinking with her boozy book club friends.”