Dorothy

Gator shows up to her house one day. He hopes she still lives there, considering it burned down and everything. The prison visits dried up slowly over the three years, but he doesn't blame her. She always sounds busy with Scout groups, and donation drives, and her husband and daughter of course.

She offers him a cup of coffee, and he points to his forearm that didn't break to describe the color he wants it. But he can't know if it's as tan anymore. There's so much that's down to guesswork. She brings him the coffee and it's just right.

"What brings you here?"

I don't have anywhere else to go. I can't stand it anymore, he urges his mouth to say.

"Just passing through," he says instead.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to pick you up from prison," she says, tinkling her fingernails against her own cup.

"I got out early."

"You could've called."

"Didn't wanna bother you."

She's been through so much and now he's here, and the prison hairdressers didn't give him the little shaved-in parts on the side of his hair so he must look so much like Roy. How can she stand to be in the same room?

"Where you staying these days?" she asks.

Nowhere, seeing as government benefits aren't much past a loaf of bread. Roy didn't tell him that, else it would've been hard to believe anyone could mooch off it. Gator can't think of a good reply fast enough, and Dot hums.

"You're family, Gator. You're welcome to stay here, as long as... Long as you don't have any contact with those people."

He clears his throat. "Not a problem."

The screams bursting from the cell next to his. Freezing, only able to wait for them to come for him next. A friendly slap on the shoulder, saying they took care of his neighbor for him, that they gotta keep this cell block proud like they just mowed their lawn. Didn't even know he wasn't white. Crying and hoping the tears didn't get below the bandages.

"Good. How's that coffee?"

He sips it, his hand shaking. The tears are coming again, now, and even the hot creamy coffee can't unstick the frog in his throat.

"Got any stories for me?" she asks.

"This guy came up to me in the hallway, and started– started grabbing me. I couldn't do anything, I couldn't see how big he was, like if I could knock him out or nothing. Only thing was this guard came up and broke him off. But if he wasn't there–"

Gator's voice breaks, but he doesn't sob. Strong backhand'll dry those tears.

"How'd you do it, Dot? How did you take it every night?" he asks, and he covers his mouth with his hand to stop his shuddery breaths, but it doesn't work.

She moves over to the couch with him, and wraps her arm tight around his shoulders. She doesn't answer, and he doesn't want her to.

"I should have killed him," Gator whispers, once and twice and three times right into her ear, probably spraying her with spit.

Wayne

"And then you have to add the chili flakes – you can't forget those. It's what chili's named after!" Wayne explains emphatically.

He's been narrating his recipes to Gator lately. Mostly for his own benefit, Gator imagines, or maybe to rub it in that men can cook too. Wayne doesn't seem that malicious, though, doesn't have a mean bone in his body. Gator's looked, too, tried to find something to cling onto but he's rounded, sanded down.

"Do you remember what we're adding next?" Wayne asks, knowing that Gator wasn't listening.

"You talk a lot," Gator replies.

"I've been told that," he says, smile in his voice.

Gator smiles too. Not surprising; even less surprising that he'd admit it. Wayne gets back to stirring, clinking the spoon against the big ringing pot.

"Black pepper – freshly cracked," Wayne says.

He twists the pepper mill, and it grits like gravel under big boots.

"You know, one time I got some right in Scotty's eye, 'cause she was standing under me watching me cook. That was a rough night. Had to stay up til two in the morning watching over her. Good excuse to cuddle her though," Wayne adds, leaning in to Gator like it's a secret. "She doesn't let me now."

"Never heard a man talk like you, you know," Gator comments.

Wayne laughs, high and floaty. "I don't know if that's supposed to be a compliment or not."

Roy's voice rasped. His friends' voices clattered, rattled the walls of the room. Karen's father was worst of all, just the way he talked with pure contempt on every subject, like the hate had seeped into the walls of his throat. Even Roy was scared of him.

"It is," Gator says, not pushing his voice to be quite so loud or low.

Scotty

Gator's sitting on Scotty's bed, and she's writing down something for her homework. He's supposed to help, somehow, even though she seems a lot smarter than he did at twelve. But it feels right to try and contribute, and this is all he can do.

"What's the next question?" he asks, so he can pretend to mull it over while she answers.

"Explain the theory of evolution in one paragraph," Scotty recites.

He scoffs. "That ain't real. God made all the creatures of the earth."

She pauses for a moment, pencil not scribbling against her homework. Her chair squeaks; maybe, she turns to face him.

"How come a dog and a wolf look nearly the same? So many animals do," she says. "I think if God made all the animals, then he gave up halfway through."

Gator pictures a dog and a wolf, in his mind's eye, and they do look about the same. But a dog can only follow instructions, and imperfectly at that. He lives under a roof and eats the kibble he's given, and never has instinct to go for the throat.

Chew your leg off (unless you are incapable of realizing the trap you're in).

Maybe God did give up halfway through.

Gator thinks to other subjects: history, and literature, and the arts (which he can no longer appreciate). All tainted by Roy Tillman, and he can't pass that taint along to this poor little girl. Only thing left untouched is numbers.

"Got any math? I'm better with math."

(One broken nose. Two cracked ribs. Three escape attempts.)

She hums, and brings out another worksheet.

Himself

He can make it around town, a little. It's best in places he's been before, and if he's wearing sunglasses instead of a cloth. There's a tiny little pinprick at the side of each eye, and then he can broadly see if he's looking up or down by how light it is. If he really really focuses, he can see the stripes of crosswalks or simple colors like Subway green and McDonald's red.

That's how he knows where he's at, but it's not how he navigates. He sweeps his cane over the pavement and asks for help and sometimes, whoever he holds hands with is willing to sit down and chat with him. It's an odd meetcute, he supposes, but it works.

He's found solace in a woman, another woman, then a man, which he wasn't quite ready for but he only realized that after the fact. They all talked soft, like Wayne does. They told him about their past and it wasn't perfect and Godly, but they were still there body and soul. And they took him as he is, blind and recovering, learning and unlearning.

And when they made their way past dinners and dates, it wasn't all according to some script. Gator didn't dominate, didn't claim. It was two people enjoying each other, finding pleasure with each other without screaming or hollering or throwing things or hiding with his fingers in his ears trying to ignore it all. And one thing came to mind every time, afterward:

Why did nobody tell him he could live like this?

Gator hides behind the barn on days like this. It's not even lunchtime yet and it's started. Normally he can get a little reading done with Nadine first, have lunch and pray it's not cold or oversalted.
Roy steps around the side of the barn, walks over and squats down next to Gator. Gator doesn't wipe away his tears, doesn't wanna draw more attention to them, but he forces his breathing to be steady.
"Might seem harsh now, but with women – you have to train them, like a horse."
Gator doesn't mention that Roy's much less rough on the horses. That he always tells Gator not to hit them or they'll spook and bolt.
"This is God's plan, His will. One day, you'll have to break in a wife of your own."
He claps his hot, bloodied hand on Gator's shoulder. "You'd do good to watch me, you see?"
His voice is a rusted steel pipe raised over Gator's head. Gator swallows thickly.
"Yeah, Dad. I see."