“I didn’t do anything,” he said, hoping to sound innocent. He didn’t want to talk about Miss Ruth. He wanted to keep her all to himself for now.

“I’m not blind.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. This little delinquent didn’t get home until ten o’clock last night,” said Auntie Glo, who stood in the shadow of the hallway glaring at Midnight. Flaming red hair fanned her face and she stuck out her tongue with the silver stud piercing. Too lazy to make breakfast herself, she appeared whenever she heard Granny in the kitchen.

“It’s none of your business what time I got home. You’re not my mother,” he retorted.

“Midnight, you know better than to talk back to an adult. Show some respect in my house.” Granny leaned against the door frame, too unsteady to stand for long.

“Are you okay?” Midnight asked, concerned. Ever since his mother died, he worried about Granny dying, too. At night while she slept, he sometimes tiptoed into her room to watch her until he saw the slight rise and fall of her chest or heard her faint breathing.

“I’m fine, son. You know I just need to eat after I take my insulin. Now wash the dishes for me. I’ll be in my room.” Granny had already turned to head to her bedroom, carrying her breakfast with her.

“Gloria, come in here. We need to talk,” she said.

Auntie Glo glared at Midnight and followed Granny, closing the door behind them.

The door was thick enough to support Midnight’s weight when he pressed his body against it, but thin enough to hear some of what was said on the other side. Nicky sat on the living room floor and played with wooden blocks. He made noises, trying to get Midnight’s attention.

“You got to be quiet,” Midnight hissed, and put his finger to his lips.

Nicky yelled louder.

“I changed you. I washed you. I know you’re hungry, but you got to wait. Now shush.”

Midnight grabbed Nicky’s pacifier from the countertop and stuffed it in his mouth. There was no time to rinse it first. Returning to his place against the door, he listened to the women talking. Usually, they complained about money, how Auntie Glo never had any and Granny didn’t have enough left over after rent, utilities, and the expenses for the store.

“Business has been so slow lately, and I don’t know how long I can afford to keep the store open. I sure hate to do it, but I don’t have any other choice.” Then Granny said something else that Midnight couldn’t quite hear when her voice got softer.

“He’s a pain, but where’s he going to go?” Auntie Glo asked.

He couldn’t make out Granny’s answer. He pressed his ear as hard as he could against the door, but her voice was muffled.

The next thing he heard Granny say: “Butch isn’t working and I’m already taking care of you and little Nicky. I just can’t do it anymore.”

“They made me cashier at Save A Lot,” Auntie Glo said. “But it’s not enough for me to get my own place yet.”

“Yes, I know. Lord, I wish Hannah were here. Midnight needs his mother. I hate to uproot him and I know it’s far, but I don’t see another way.”

A hard rock stuck in Midnight’s throat. It hurt to swallow. Maybe Granny was sending him to join Daddy at Drew’s apartment, even though she called it a hellhole. But it only took fifteen minutes to drive there, so it wasn’t that far. Where else could he go?

Grabbing his coat, Midnight ran from the house, past the corner convenience store, across the snow-covered railroad tracks to Pine Top, the tiny section of town between Pratt and Grundy where dads tossed footballs on front lawns with their kids. Midnight heard shuffling behind him and there was Bones. When he slowed his pace, they ran alongside each other. A haphazard set of snow prints followed them, a record of the chaos neither could seem to outrun.

Nine

Ruth

Standing on this side of her childhood house, Ruth remembered leaving in her old Pinto at seventeen, with no baby, yet still heavy with her burden. When she had come home once on college break during the winter holiday, she had tried not to look at anything too long, moving in and out quickly enough to avoid any fresh stabs of guilt. One thing she did recall from that trip home was the house, its yellow paint faded and peeling in places.

Ganton had been cut off at the knees, folding in on itself, knocked down too many times to stand up straight again. A broken beer bottle and an empty Cheetos bag poked out of the snow next to one driveway on the corner. Mama told her that house had become a Section 8 rental property with a revolving door of tenants who had no ties to the community or investment in its upkeep.

But the neighborhood held good memories, too. Ruth and Eli used to own these streets. Six years older than she, her brother did everything first: ride a bike, go to school, lose teeth and grow new ones. But long past the point of it being cool, Eli still hung out with his kid sister. They drew blue and yellow chalk lines on the asphalt for hopscotch games and skipped down the street to chase the chimes of the ice cream truck. Back then Ruth didn’t understand what it meant to be poor. Every house for as far as she could see stood tall and proud, one no better or worse than the one beside it.

What if Xavier had come with her on this visit? She pictured him at home in their living room with his feet propped up on the ottoman, watching football. Had she let her fears irreparably damage her marriage?