“Gah, duh, buh, buh, buh, muh!” Travis placed his order when Joker opened the cupboard.

“Carson?” she called.

He twisted her way.

Then he stilled.

She said nothing. Just looked at him.

But the softness of her features. The warmth in her eyes. The way she held her body. She didn’t need to say anything.

That said it all.

Then her face got softer, her eyes warmer, and she pursed her lips slightly, making no noise, but blowing him a kiss.

After that she turned away.

Joker turned back to the cupboard and his voice was rougher than normal when he asked Travis, “What do you think, boy? Carrots?”

“Buh nuh,” Travis declined, and Joker looked at him to see him staring into the cupboard with serious baby face.

Joker smiled.

Then, his chest light, precious held in his arm, his boots on the floor of a kitchen in a house owned by good people and occupied by his dream, he picked sweet potato and beef.

Carissa

That Sunday, I stood in Joker’s room at the Compound in my boyfriend jeans, Converse, and the Ride tee I’d splurged on as a no-more-attorney’s-fee celebration (Speck, at the cash register in the store, tried to give it to me for free, I refused, we made a deal at forty percent off so it was a very small splurge).

I was staring around at the mess that had accumulated in what I’d thought was a short period of time since I last cleaned.

Travis was crawling through the debris, which was mostly dirty clothes, and thankfully no choking hazards like coins, having the time of his life.

We’d been headed to lunch, but on the way Joker had to stop to have a quick meeting with his brothers.

So there I was, facing what might not have been as colossal as the first challenge, but it was still a mess.

My body jerked when Joker surprisingly rounded the door much earlier than I expected, announcing, “Meet’s done, Butterfly.”

“That didn’t take long,” I noted.

“It was important, but there wasn’t much to say,” he replied, not coming to me, going straight to Travis, whereupon I watched him bend deep and gently pull the sock Travis was about to shove in his mouth out of his baby fist. “We don’t suck on socks, kid, dirty or otherwise.”

Travis, sitting on his booty, slammed his fists into his thighs and yelled, “Bah, jah, kah, lah!”

“Whatever,” Joker returned, grabbed him and lifted him up.

Travis squealed in protest, preferring the wonders of Joker’s floor to what I thought was far more wondrous, being in his arms.

“You wanna go?” he asked me.

“Do you ever do laundry?” I asked him.

“Not until I have to,” he told me.