“So, uh. You want me to … you know?” I hooked a thumb at the hall leading through the house.

“Yeah, man. It’s not really the best day. Maybe this weekend.”

“We could catch a movie. Maybe shoot some hoop.”

“Let’s talk about it later, yeah?”

He came off the railing, and I looked again at the bruises, the torn skin. There was more to say, but I never found the time to say it. We heard a racing engine, then the squeal of rubber as something fast and loose took the corner five houses down. The engine screamed louder, and metal scraped metal. Voices from the front yard: The fuck, man? Watch it! Watch it! The crash that followed was louder and close, and extreme for the silence that followed. Seconds later, a voice carried the length of the hall.

“Jason, yo! You better get out here!” I followed my brother through the house. A man with the same voice said, “Yo, it’s your girl.”

Jason stepped onto bare dirt, but stopped before reaching the wrecked car. It was a Mercedes two-seater, sideways in the yard, with paint stripped from the fenders and the front end pinned against a tree. Tyra was half out of the front door, both hands in the dirt as the engine ticked, and a shattered turn signal flashed orange.

“Tyra, Jesus. You okay?”

Jason moved to the car, and helped her up. She wore a white skirt and a teal tank top. Her knees were skinned, a trickle of blood at the hairline. She stumbled, and Jason caught her, the top of her head tucked beneath his chin. She could barely stand. She leaned into him, kissed his neck long and slow, then said, “Get your convict hands off me.” Pushing him away, she pulled an arm free, and stumbled again. Mascara smeared the skin beneath her eyes. Her words slurred. “You don’t get to touch me. Not ’til I get what I came for.”

“Tyra. Come on. Take it easy.”

“You don’t get to break up with me. Not you…”

“Tyra…”

“Not some two-bit, pasty-white, deadbeat, convict-looking son of a bitch.”

“Come on. Sit down.”

“I said don’t touch me!”

She swung at him, and he danced back, light as any boxer on Wide World of Sports. Around us, people stood in the street and in other yards. A sign was down at the corner; cars along the curb were damaged. I sidled up behind my brother. “Can I do anything?”

“She’s just high.”

I didn’t know if that meant weed or something harder. She was glassy and loose, her skin splotched, her skirt hiked up on the left side. Noticing the bystanders, she said, “The hell are you looking at?”

Jason tried again. “Tyra?”

“Do you know what this man is? What he does?” She stumbled closer, waving a finger. “He kills dreams! He fucks women and he kills dreams!”