HE RAN hot water and a bar of soap through the work gloves and dried them in the oven, wore them on his hands while he slept, and in the morning his father didn’t wake him, and he didn’t wake him the day after, and Terry slept to late afternoon and woke dry mouthed, body sore. The back of his thighs ached, in the center, down to the knee bend, and a muscle running from his left shoulder up his neck to his head felt twisted and wound tight. The fabric stuck at the cuts leaked in the night and he pulled them off in the kitchen, wrung the gloves with water and soap again and set them to dry on the counter, and then he washed his hands with dish soap, and no blood then, but the cut lines were puffed and raw. He made fists. Light broke trees in the backyard, the pine twitched. He heard the front door shut hard in the frame.

His father found him smoking on the back steps. He held the door for him to come back inside. He sat near the middle of the couch, and Terry sat on the chair facing him, both hunched over their knees.

You still tired?

Terry nodded, and rubbed a spot on the back of his neck.

You sore?

My neck hurts some.

You need to get some ice.

Alright.

Benjamin Webber looked at him, and then he turned his face down to the space between his thighs. He stayed that way and pushed on the backs of his hands with his thumbs.

You can’t run away again. Terry nodded. They’ll take you off. I won’t do it anymore.

You don’t want to come with me. I know that. There’s no choice here though. You understand that?