My mother told me his friend found him, days later, black faced and bloated.

Not his parents. Not even my grandmother, his only sister. They were only ten months apart in age. His friend came looking for him.

“Who was his friend?” I’d asked my mother more than once.

“Some hillbilly queer,” she said, shooing me away. “Don’t get romantic about it.”

But now, when I pictured the friend going into the cellar, it was me, cutting the rope that held Baby Jane, holding his blackened face and cradling his head, weeping.

He had a heavy sadness to him. Like an old saint or an icon even, with the big sad eyes and the gaunt mouth.

When I got to the house, there was blood on the doorknob, and it was locked. When I wiggled it, I got the blood on my hands and left my prints on the door.

I could hear movement within. “Baby,” I called. “Open up.”

I would break in if I had to. I could get the screen out of the window. I could break the glass.

He flung the door open, holding his arm. “Don’t,” he said.

He was wearing a gray suit jacket that was torn through at the bicep and soaked with blood.

My mother had shot him.

“Why were you at my house?” I asked.

“Where have you been?” he asked in return.

He stood with his feet planted in the doorway, trying to block me, but I pushed past him.

“What’s it to you?” I snapped. “Not sleeping on top of the covers,” I said.

I pulled at the jacket, and he let it slide off most of the way, until it stuck to the wound. “You need a doctor.” I pressed at the tear in the fabric, and the blood oozed fresh.

Baby drew in a sharp breath.

I tried to see. I thought he needed stitches; it needed to be cleaned; he might need antibiotics.

“Don’t touch me,” he said. He hissed it through his teeth, his jaw tight.

“Don’t be stupid,” I said.

His face was pale but set. His lips a straight line.

“Sit down,” I said. I forced him to sit on the love seat. There was blood on my hands, on my shirt. It had dripped on the floor.

“It’s all over you,” he said.

“So what?” I said. “My mother tried to shoot you.”

“She did shoot me,” he said. “She tried to kill me.”

“Why were you there?”

“Why weren’t you there?” he shot back.

“You can’t come looking for me,” I said. “That’s not how this works.”

“Wash your hands,” he said.

“Why?” I shouted. “This is what you’re afraid of?” I took the wet blood from my hands and smeared it on my face. “Who fucking cares?”

“Shannon,” he said, shrunk into the love seat. His face was wet with tears but also sweat. “It’s dangerous,” he said.

I laughed at him.

“I’m dangerous,” he said.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I said, and rolled my eyes. He was living like a hermit, like a monk, alone without TV or a phone. And then I thought, so am I.