He says nothing, still careful since the morning. His head feels full, heavy with everything that has passed, so he doesn’t argue. He slips the fresh copy in his folder and closes the copybook. One-Two squeezes his shoulder lightly as he fits himself past.

“You take it easy now, Delivery. If life comes at you hard, you just take it real easy.”

Betty hugs him. “I’ll get you breakfast in the morning. Sleep good.”

Lincoln walks up the stairs, quietly glad about Betty’s attempt at an apology for the morning’s slap. One-Two and Betty stare at the floor. One-Two lets out an exaggerated sigh and rubs his belly.

He stands and takes his plate to the sink.

“You make good bread, One-Two.” She moves aside as he sets the dishes in the sink.

“Simon’s out, huh?”

“Here this mornin.”

“He say where he’s stayin?”

“Somethin about work at the Curtis. God knows why they’d send a convict there.”

“If the work’s honest, that’s a start. He gotta get used to the world somehow, even the dirt.”

“So close. Just down the street, you can almost see it from here. Don’t know if I want him that close.”

“Where’d you rather?”

“It don’t matter, I guess.”

“He know you uprootin?”

“Naw. I didn’t tell him. Barely believe it myself.”

One-Two places his hand on Betty’s arm. “If you—”

Betty tenses and looks up at the ceiling.

“Lincoln! If you ain’t in bed I’m gonna slap you up. Again.”

They hear a thump and scramble. Betty looks back at One-Two tenderly.

“Don’t, One-Two. Don’t.”

He moves away and busies himself with collecting his tobacco from the table. He sweeps the shag into the ashtray.

“You can’t keep on runnin, Betty.”

“What did you say?”

“I said—”

“I know what you said. They bring me back a dead husband and I didn’t run from that. My girl gets hit by a train I was the one closed the coffin. Simon kills Lincoln’s dad and I took that, too. Now he’s out and I ain’t gonna run. Where to? Up north ain’t no good. Down here ain’t no better.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“The how don’t matter. It’s the what that counts. You’re free to go.”

“I meant runnin from me.”

“I never asked.”

“Betty.”

“Go on, One-Two. Go on home.”

One-Two straightens himself and brushes his hands down the front of his shirt, patting himself as if what Betty said dislodged something, his checkbook, a lottery ticket, something vital. He turns and walks from the kitchen. Betty follows him to the front door.

“One-Two?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the bread. It’s real good.”