He’d seen them grin at each other, they did it a lot, and Carson couldn’t remember one single time he’d smiled at his old man.

And he’d seen the goatee guy laugh at something his kid said. Or he’d smack him on the shoulder in a way that wasn’t mean. Or, the best, he’d grab him by the side or back of the neck and tug him close, swaying him around.

It was a hug. A motorcycle guy hug for his boy. Carson knew it, even though he’d never felt anything like it. The kid had done something his father liked. Or made him proud. Or maybe it was just because he looked at his son and couldn’t stop himself from showing some love.

Right then, they were bent over the engine of a car, hood up, one on each side, doing shit. Every once in a while they’d look at each other and say something. Or smile. Or laugh.

Carson watched a long time. Until they quit and walked through the garage, disappearing in its dark depths.

Probably they were off to some house Carson figured was clean and nice and maybe even decorated good. They’d have dinner together. Maybe with the pretty dark-headed girl he’d also seen around who could be none other than that guy’s daughter and that kid’s sister.

They’d get home and have dinner and that guy would ask his son if he’d done his homework. He’d give him crap about the girls he was dating. The good kind. The my-boy’s-becoming-a-man-and-I-like-how-that’s-happening kind.

The kind Carson never got.

On this thought, he took off. Kept walking. Found a spot and dug the book out of the back of his jeans where he’d shoved it, and took the nubs of pencils out of his pockets. He sat with his back to a tree in the park, his ass to the ground, and flipped through.

Sketches.

His.

Drawings of Linus’s bulldog, Ruff. Carson loved that dog. He looked like a bruiser, the way he waddled was flat-out hilarious, but he always seemed like he was smiling. As he would, the love Linus showered on him.

There were also drawings of Mrs. Heely’s house.

She lived across the street and one down from Carson and his dad. She had an American flag on the flagpole, aimed high but stuck at a slant on the house at the top side of her front door, the edges tattered.

He mowed her lawn for money. He also did shit around the house for her because her son, and only child, was gone and so was her old man, so she didn’t have anyone else to do it.