And of course, for her. His Dayna.
Over the years, the resemblance between them had faded, especially in the last year, when she had put on a lot of weight in her face and chest and shoulders. Still, it was there, even though they didn’t share a father, and she was much lighter than he was: in the dark brown hair, and the hazel eyes spaced far apart; the definite chins; and in their noses, which both curved almost imperceptibly to the left.
Dodge opened the refrigerator. His mom must have gone out last night; there were cartons of leftover Chinese. He opened them and sniffed. Chicken with broccoli and shrimp fried rice. Good enough. Dayna watched him as he piled it all onto a plate and, without bothering to nuke it, grabbed a fork and started eating.
“Well?” she prompted.
He had wanted to save the news, to torture her by not telling, but he had to talk. He had to share it with someone. He put the plate down, came into the living room, and sat on the couch, which he and Dayna had nicknamed the Butt. “It was a bust,” he said. “Cops came.”
She watched him carefully. “Are you sure you want to do this, Dodge?” she said quietly.
“Come on, Dayna.” He was annoyed that she’d even asked. He hauled her legs into his lap. Massage was the only thing that would keep them from total atrophy, and he still insisted on working her calves every day, even though she’d been saying for a long time that it was useless. She’d seen a dozen different doctors. And she’d been going to physical therapy for well over a year now.
But there’d been no change. No improvement. She’d never walk again. Not without a miracle.
Despite the daily massages, Dayna’s legs were thin—stalky and pale, like something that would grow on a plant. Even as her face had become rounder, the flesh of her arms looser, her legs continued to wither. Dodge tried not to think about how often, as a kid, those same legs had pumped her forward during a footrace, and propelled her into trees when they had climbing wars. She had always been strong—as hard as polished wood, scrappy and made of muscle. Stronger than most boys, and braver, too.
For Dodge’s whole life, she had been his best friend, his partner in crime. She was two years older than him, and had been the de facto leader of whatever scheme or game they had invented. When he was five, they’d bottled their farts and tried to sell them. When he was seven, they’d spent a summer exploring their neighborhood in Dawson, Minnesota, looking for treasure, and wound up with a garden shed full of weird shit: an old top hat, a busted radio, two tire spokes, and the rusted frame of a bicycle. They’d found adventure in whatever shitty-ass town their mom had happened to dump them.
Now they would never have another adventure. She would never climb, or bike, or bet him five bucks she could still beat him in a footrace. She would always need help to bathe, to get on and off the toilet.
And it was all Luke Hanrahan’s fault. He’d messed with Dayna’s car, fucked with the steering in advance of the showdown, forcing her off the road. Dodge knew it.
“Mom went on a date last night,” Dayna said, obviously trying to change the subject.
“So?” Dodge said. He was still vaguely annoyed. Besides, everywhere they went, his mom found some new loser to date.
Dayna shrugged. “She seemed into it. And she wouldn’t tell me who.”
“She was probably embarrassed,” Dodge said. In the silence, he heard banging from outside—someone was going through the Dumpsters. Dayna leaned forward to look out the window.
“Shit,” she said.
“Little Kelly?” he said, and Dayna nodded. Little Bill Kelly had to be thirty and at least six foot five, but his dad, Bill Kelly, had been police chief for twenty years before his retirement, and everyone knew him as Big Kelly. Dodge had only ever seen Big Kelly once, and even then only for a second, when he’d accidentally biked out in front of Bill’s car. Bill had leaned on the horn and shouted for Dodge to be careful.
Dodge sighed, eased Dayna’s legs off his lap, and stood up. Through the window he could see Little Kelly balancing on a steel drum full of old grease, methodically sorting through one of the Dumpsters sandwiched up against the back of Dot’s Diner, just next to the kitchen door. It was the third time in a month he’d been picking garbage.
Dodge didn’t bother putting on a shirt. He crossed the short concrete alley that divided their apartment from the diner, careful to avoid the broken glass. The kitchen boys drank beers during their shift sometimes.