Other people felt sorry for him, too, and that put Gage’s back up. Not Mr. Hawkins though. He never let the pity show. And whenever Gage did any chores for the bowling alley, Mr. Hawkins paid him in cash, on the side. And with a conspirator’s wink.

He knew, hell, everybody knew, that Bill Turner knocked his kid around from time to time. But Mr. Hawkins was the only one who’d ever sat down with Gage and asked him what he wanted. Did he want the cops, Social Services, did he want to come stay with him and his family for a while?

He hadn’t wanted the cops or the do-gooders. They only made it worse. And though he’d have given anything to live in that nice house with people who lived decent lives, he’d only asked if Mr. Hawkins would please, please, not fire his old man.

He got knocked around less whenever Mr. Hawkins kept his father busy and employed. Unless, of course, good old Bill went on a toot and decided to whale in.

If Mr. Hawkins knew how bad it could get during those times, he would call the cops.

So he didn’t tell, and he learned to be very good at hiding beatings like the one he’d taken the night before.

Gage moved carefully as he snagged three cold ones out of his father’s beer supply. The welts on his back and butt were still raw and angry and they stung like fire. He’d expected the beating. He always got one around his birthday. He always got another one around the date of his mother’s death.

Those were the big, traditional two. Other times, the whippings came as a surprise. But mostly, when the old man was working steady, the hits were just a careless cuff or shove.

He didn’t bother to be quiet when he turned toward his father’s bedroom. Nothing short of a raid by the A-Team would wake Bill Turner when he was in a drunken sleep.