Leave a Mark

Chapter One

Dr. Leland Hawthorne couldn’t keep his eyes open.

He’d failed to get used to the twenty-four-hour shift, even in the fourth year of his residency. The fact that he worked two a week didn’t make life any easier.

Lee still had hours ahead of him before he could go home for the night, but if Mrs. Clark didn’t transition too quickly, he could crash in the bunkroom until his shift ended.

It was 4:03 p.m., and he’d come back to University Medical Center at six o’clock the night before. After eight deliveries — two of them preemies — Lee figured he’d need another twenty-four hours just to catch up on his charts.

But first, he had to sleep before he fell over. He waved to Elaine, the charge nurse, and pointed to the bunkroom. She smiled and gave him the fingers crossed sign. Lee opened the door slowly, just in case Mercer had found a few minutes to slip away, but the resident anesthesiologist was nowhere to be found.

He claimed the bottom bunk farthest from the door and collapsed.

Six o’clock. When six o’clock comes, I’ll head home and sleep for twelve blessed hours…

With his face in the pillow, Lee frowned.

Are we going somewhere tonight...? What day is...

"Dr. Hawthorne? Dr. Hawthorne? Lee!" Elaine’s voice pulled him up from the dead.

He had to be dead. If he wasn’t dead, why was it so hard to move?

Yeah? He forced the word past his zombie tongue. His awful breath was further proof that he’d expired.

Mrs. Clark says she’s ready to push. Should I tell Bev to have her wait?

Lee bolted up. He hadn’t become an OB so he could have mothers and babies wait on him. It was supposed to be the other way around.

No... no. I’m on my way.

Lee blinked to unglue the contacts from his corneas. He stumbled out of the bunkroom and dragged a hand through his hair, sure that his cowlick stuck straight up like a rooster comb. At least Marcelle wasn’t around to see it. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was only 4:19.

How’s that possible?

Well, hello, Sleeping Beauty, said Bev Champagne, the labor and delivery nurse with as much sass as she had height. At 5’11", she could look Lee straight in the eye when she laughed in his face — which happened more times than he cared to admit — but she was the best LD nurses at UMC.

Is someone ready to be born? Lee asked, ignoring her jab.

Mrs. Clark is one-hundred percent effaced, ten centimeters, and ready to push, doc.

Lee crossed to his patient. She stared at him with alarmed brown eyes, so he smiled.

How you doing, Mrs. Clark?

I still hate needles, but think I’d like to change my mind about that epidural, she said, still wide-eyed.

Lee tried not to let his smile grow. Mrs. Clark, it’s a little late for that now, but this isn’t your first rodeo, he said, shaking his head. You did great the last time.

The laboring mother didn’t look convinced. Yeah, but this one’s coming a bit faster than Desiree. I mean— She stopped mid-sentence and grabbed Lee’s hand. The fetal monitor echoed proof of her contraction, and Lee checked the baby’s heartrate. Lord, I gotta push!

You go right ahead, Mrs. Clar— His words choked off when she squeezed his hand in a death grip.

Dr. Hawthorne, you aren’t even gloved and gowned yet, Bev scolded. Out of the way, and get ready.

Bev pushed him aside and took his place. He’s nice to look at, honey, but he’s just like every other man, Bev told Mrs. Clark. You have to tell him what to do every damn day.

Mrs. Clark’s second child, a healthy son she was naming Antoine, was born at 5:04 p.m., which gave Lee just enough time to finish his charts before his shift ended. As always, natural births invigorated him, and he found himself looking forward to eating dinner and talking to Marcelle for a few minutes before he showered and crawled into bed.

As he turned onto St. Mary Street on his drive home, Lee gave thanks for about the millionth time that he’d won out on the Great House Battle of 2014. Marcelle and his stepmother had rallied hard for the cottage in River Ranch, but Lee liked the area around the Saint Streets.

It wasn’t only that it was closer to UMC. The neighborhood just felt real. Live oaks shaded the houses. Vegetable gardens grew in front yards. People of every age and color walked and rode bikes on its streets in the evenings.

And it was a hell of a lot more affordable than River Ranch.

The house he’d bought on Dunreath had been built in 1938. The walls were center-match, the roof was slate, and the Spanish arches on both sides of his living room — cracks in the plaster on each — reminded him of New Orleans. The best part was the screened front porch with the cypress swing.

One day, I’ll even get to enjoy it, Lee thought as he pulled his white Cherokee into the drive behind the house, parking next to Marcelle’s black Miata. She had her own townhouse in Greenbriar, but on nights when he was home, she slept over. If she didn’t, they’d never see each other.

He crossed the back yard along the path of paving stones and ducked under the covered deck, throwing a longing glance to the two kayaks that hung from the ceiling.

Soon.

Lee trudged up the back steps, hoping to find some brisket still in the fridge from his dad’s Sunday barbecue two days before. He’d missed the event, but his stepmother, Barbara, had sent home leftovers with Marcelle.

From the kitchen he heard the hair dryer across the house. Marcelle wouldn’t hear him, so he didn’t bother shouting. Instead, he pulled open the refrigerator door, found the plastic container of shredded brisket, and grabbed a fork.

Even cold, the barbecued brisket set him moaning. He knew it would be better on bread — bread, with a little mayonnaise and sliced tomato. Maybe he’d even make two sandwiches, but he needed to work his way up to that.

Then again, if he emptied the container straight into his mouth, that was okay, too.

Footsteps clicked down the hall, but Lee couldn’t bring himself to pull his face away from the dish.

Leland, what are you doing? We have the health clinic auction tonight. Marcelle stood over him wearing a frantic look and a black cocktail dress. We need to leave in thirty minutes!

Chapter Two

Laurie looked pretty. Her shoes and her shorts sparkled, and the pink on her lips matched her fingernails and toenails.

Wren wanted pink lips and sparkles, too.

Laurie giggled at her friend, Darryl. He was a new friend. He’d never spent the night, but Wren figured he would tonight. She thought his hair was ugly the way it parted right down the middle, but Laurie was giggling a lot, so he must have been nicer than her last friend.

They sat at the kitchen counter, and Darryl poured two Cokes. Then he took a white bottle with a coconut tree on it and poured some of that into each glass and passed one to Laurie.

I want a coconut Coke, Wren said, making both the grownups laugh.

Wren, honey, you can’t have that. You’re too little. Laurie flipped her hair over her shoulder and smiled at Darryl. Babe, can you pour her just a little Coke? I’m gonna find us something fun to go with this. Be right back.

Wren watched her mother walk to their bedroom in her high heels. She wanted shoes just like those.

You wanna be like the grownups, sugar? Darryl asked, pulling her attention away from Laurie’s shoes.

Wren nodded. She wanted to be grown up so if she said something, Laurie would have to listen to her, just like she had to listen when Laurie and Mamaw Gigi and Papaw Dale told her what to do. If she were a grownup, she’d tell Laurie to go to bed early and wake up in time for school.

Well, grownups keep secrets. Can you keep a secret? Darryl asked, pouring her Coke into a plastic cup.

Again, Wren nodded. She kept lots of secrets. She never told anyone at school that Papaw Dale had to call the police when one of Laurie’s friends broke the front window.

Darryl reached for the white bottle with the coconut tree. If you can keep a secret, I’ll give you some, and you’ll be that much more grown up, though you seem half grown up already.

I can keep a secret, she said, smiling, and she watched him pour.

Earth to Wren? Hello? Where’d you go? Cherise asked, forking the last of her Dwyer’s hash browns into her mouth.

Wren Blanchard shook off the memory and wrinkled her nose at her best friend’s soft drink. I was just wondering how you can drink a Coke at 9:30 in the morning.

It’s Diet Coke, bitch, Cherise teased. You know I hate coffee, but I need caffeine. She pushed away her near-empty plate and swiped one of Wren’s bacon strips.

Bitch, I was going to eat that.

Cherise made a face. No, you weren’t. You were going to put it in your little Curtis-the-Junkie to-go box. She pointed to the Styrofoam container their server had just delivered. It held a slice of ham, a biscuit, and an order of hash browns, and Cherise was right; Wren would have added the leftover bacon.

Well, Curtis needs it more than you, fatty.

This attempt at guilting her friend earned her an eye roll. Cherise had the figure of a celery stalk. Why she bothered with Diet Coke, Wren would never understand. Curtis needs to take care of himself as much as you take care of him. Then, maybe, he wouldn’t be living in the park.

Let me worry about Curtis, Wren said, ending the discussion.

Cherise just shook her head. C’mon. I gotta get to work.

Leaving their tips on the table, Wren and Cherise walked out to their beach cruisers. They’d bought the matching set at Walmart two years ago, and every Thursday since then, they met at Dwyer’s Cafe for breakfast and rode their bikes to work. It didn’t matter that they no longer worked at the same place.

Wren tucked the to-go box into her bike’s wicker basket. Everything would slide backward in the container, but Curtis wouldn’t care. She could find him, she knew, on one of the benches at Parc Sans Souci — across from Agave, where she used to work and where Cherise still did.

They pedaled down Garfield before taking a right onto Polk Street. School buses were already parked behind the Lafayette Science Museum to their right, and mothers with strollers pushed their way into the Children’s Museum on their left.

That’ll be you one day, Cherise teased, jerking her head at a mother with a doublewide stroller.

Wren laughed.

Yeah, right.

They circled the park and stopped across from Agave. Abed, Wren’s old boss, sprayed off the sidewalk in front of the cantina restaurant, getting ready for the lunch crowd. He waved to them before eyeing Cherise and pointing to his watch.

Bastard, Cherise muttered as she locked up her bike. It’s not even ten yet.

Wren bent over to secure her cruiser to one of the circular bike racks. He just likes to harass— She gasped as a sharp twinge lit up her right side, but it disappeared as soon as she straightened up.

What’s wrong? Cherise asked, giving her a look of concern. Wren just shook her head.

Maybe I shouldn’t jump on my bike right after eating my weight in pancakes.

You’ve only been doing it for two years, her best friend said, grinning. Don’t start slowing down on me now, loser. Come by tomorrow? I close.

I’ll be there. Hope the tips are big today.

Hope the skin is zit-free today, Cherise said, making her laugh.

After a quick hug, Wren grabbed the takeout box and walked past the dormant fountains. She squinted against the morning sun and tried to distinguish Curtis among the bundles on the park benches. His duct-taped sneakers gave him away, and she headed his way.

Good mornin’, Song Bird, he said, his usual greeting. He sat up before she actually reached his bench, and Wren was glad that he was awake and alert. Still, his eyes were bloodshot, but that was typical.

Morning, Curtis. I brought you some breakfast.

Then it must be Thursday. How’s your friend? What’s her name?

Cherise is doing fine, Curtis. In fact, she said to tell you hello. This wasn’t exactly true, but Wren didn’t mention that her best friend scolded her again for buying the Curtis-the-Junkie to-go box.

And she wasn’t going to stop, even though Curtis asked her for money almost every time. He’d started three years ago, the first night she’d come off-shift at Agave. He’d asked her for a few bucks and walked her to her car on Polk. She’d refused him then. She always refused. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t give him something to eat and remind him that Acadiana Recovery Center was only four-blocks away — a straight shot right down Vermilion Street.

And Curtis had never been aggressive with his panhandling — unlike some of the other homeless people who lived downtown. In fact, for three years, Curtis had made sure that Wren safely reached her car every night.

That was worth a breakfast once a week. Especially now that she could afford it.

How’s the job? Rocky still treatin’ you right? Curtis asked, a glint in his eye.

Rocky’s the best. And I stay pretty busy, she said, knowing what was coming.

Maybe you might see your way clear to givin’ ole Curtis a buck or two? So I can maybe have a lil’ somethin’ later on?

Wren sighed. If she said it every time, maybe he’d listen once. Bullshit, Curtis. You know I’m not doing that. In fact, you know exactly what I’ll say.

He gave her a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. Maybe I like hearing you say it every Thursday.

Her heart tugged, but Wren knew that she couldn’t put much stock into his words. She’d grown up hearing the same thing from Laurie.

Then I’ll say it again. There’s a free treatment center right down the street. She pointed west, trying not to get angry. It didn’t help to get angry, but she never took her eyes off his. In the time it would take you to eat this breakfast, you could walk down there and get some help. You could start living a different life today, Curtis.

Curtis reached out his hands and took the box from her. Thank you for the breakfast, Song Bird. Maybe I’ll see you next week.

Hold still, you big baby, or I’ll mess up the ink. Wren Blanchard yanked her liner machine away from Bear’s shoulder. She’d barely started on her touch-up of the chain outline when her two-hundred-fifty-pound client flinched.

I am holding still, Bear argued. You’re the jumpy one.

Wren swiveled around on her stool to glare at him. John Allen Darcy, did you just call me jumpy? Wren asked, her voice pitching low — as low as it could go on someone just over five feet tall. I don’t care how big you are. I’ll take you down.

Laughter rumbled through Studio Ink.

The biker at Wren’s station narrowed his eyes at her. His straw-colored eyebrows and beard seemed to bristle.

I’m gonna pretend like you didn’t just call me by that name. It’s Bear, and you well know it.

That’s not what your credit card says, Wren mumbled, repositioning her liner.

Two Fists and Brother, fellow members of the Acadiana Chapter of Bikers Against Child Abuse, laughed again. Wren took this as a sign that she’d won the pissing contest against the biker who was twice her age and almost three times her size.

Still, it wasn’t much of a win. Everyone knew Bear was a softy. That is, until it came to his membership in this particular group. Like all of the members of BACA, Bear could turn on the scary when a little kid needed him.

A lot of Wren’s clients were bikers, but her favorites were the ones who were members of BACA. The riders would station themselves at night around the homes of abused children or escort them to and from court to testify against their attackers. They were the closest things to superheroes Wren could imagine.

She respected them so much she’d tat the BACA symbol for free — touch-ups included. Wren started that little tradition after her apprenticeship ended six months ago, and she’d never regretted it. Instead of costing her money, it had gained her a solid base of loyal customers.

Speaking of credit cards, what are you getting Ariel for your anniversary? Two Fists asked.

Bear just beamed. I’m taking her to Toledo Bend, he boasted. Wren smiled, too. She’d worked on Mrs. Gayle Darcy — Ariel — more than once, and she loved the woman’s spunk just as much as she loved her ink choices. Under her clothes lived a mermaid’s world. Two mermaid sisters ran down the sides of her body. The one on the left had cascading blue hair adorned with scallop shells and sea anemones. The other wore tresses of gold and seemed to kneel against Ariel’s right thigh, her tail fin fanning over the woman’s ample hip. The colors and textures of each were nothing less than hypnotic. Working on Ariel was a tattooist’s dream.

Wren swapped out her black liner for the white shader. She rolled her right shoulder before diving in again. How many years?

Twenty-five, Bear gloated proudly, puffing his chest.

Keep still! Wren scolded.

The biker deflated. Oops. Sorry.

Twenty-five years. Wren couldn’t imagine it. That was as long as she’d been alive. Miller, her last boyfriend, hadn’t even made it three months before she’d kicked his ass to the curb. They’d gotten along just fine while she was apprenticing. Back then, she’d spend mornings at the studio watching Rocky and working on practice skins before waiting tables every night. Her free time had been pretty limited. But as soon as Rocky hired her and she quit serving, things had changed.

She wondered how long it had taken Miller to figure out that she made a lot more money in ink. Had he known before they hooked up? Or after she’d gone full-time?

He’d started coming over to her place more often — like every night. Miller would order pizza and then duck out onto her back stairs for a smoke when the delivery guy came. It seemed like she was always the one paying. And he was constantly making some comment about how the money he made hanging drywall wasn’t worth his time. When he’d suggested moving in with her a month after she went pro, Wren’d had enough.

She pulled her machine back and rolled her shoulder again. The clock by the door said it was only 6:15 p.m. She’d come in at noon and would stay until they closed at ten o’clock. She worked Thursdays through Sundays, and it was way too early to start feeling stiff, especially since she just switched to the heavier shader. But she couldn’t ignore the dull ache that now lengthened down her back. And that twinge in her side had returned. It was weird.

What’s wrong, Wren? That gun’s not too big for you, is it? Brother teased. Wren shot him a glare, but she didn’t have to say a word.

You know better than that, Rocky warned from the table beside hers. Her boss spoke without looking up from the wings he was giving Angel Delacroix. Angel was a local middleweight boxer just starting out. The tattoo was a masterpiece they’d been working on every Thursday night for three weeks, and it wasn’t even half done. When the tattoo was finally finished, it would look like the pair of wings could flare open and lift Angel into the air. He hadn’t been in a fight since Rocky started on them, and Wren was sure the new ink would help the young boxer get noticed.

Rocky Perrodin was the best tattoo artist in Lafayette, and Wren had been lucky to apprentice with him. She was even luckier that he showed her obvious respect in front of their clients.

I’m just teasing, Brother defended. That gun’s half the size she is.

Maybe, Rocky muttered. But she can hold a machine longer than most men I know, and her art could be in the frickin’ Louvre. Wren’s only the second artist I’ve hired right out of apprenticeship, and I did that so I wouldn’t have to compete against her.

Wren bent down and pretended to check the machine’s coils so she could hide the blush that painted her face. When she stood up, the ache in her back seemed to stretch down into her thigh. It felt sort of like cramps, but it stayed just on her right side, and her period wasn’t due for another two weeks. Gritting her teeth against the discomfort, she got back to work.

Ten minutes later, the BACA logo was done. But as she set down her tools and peeled off her latex gloves, Wren saw that her hands shook. It felt like a giant vice clamped her in half. A sheen of sweat broke out on her lip.

And then pain — like a white-hot blade — pierced her in the gut.

Bear looked at her and frowned. Darlin’, you’re as white as a ghost.

His bushy eyebrows were the last things she saw before Wren Blanchard passed out.

Chapter Three

Lee was beginning his second twenty-four-hour shift of the week when the attending doc in the ER called him down.

I don’t think it’s appendicitis. No fever. No vomiting or diarrhea, Dr. Leger said, pointing to the tiny heap on the bed in front of her. Upon a closer look, the heap turned into a girl curled in the fetal position. A girl with blue and black hair. I’m thinking cyst rupture. She fainted at work and is presenting with acute abdominal pain with back and shoulder tenderness.

Lee stepped closer and took the patient’s right hand. It was clammy to the touch, but his eye darted to the tattoo on the inside of her wrist, a flock of black birds taking wing. Beneath her blue bangs, her eyes screwed shut, her forehead etched with pain.

I’m Dr. Hawthorne. Can you tell me your name?

The girl’s eyes peeked open, and Lee made out green irises, but before she could answer, Christiana Leger broke in.

Wren Blanchard. Twenty-five. Non-smoker. No prescriptions. No history of kidney stones. Her boss said she was fine one minute and on the floor the next.

Lee kept the girl’s hand in his as he glanced back at Dr. Leger. He tried to swallow the irritation his colleague inspired. Most of his colleagues. The ones who had never grasped that you could learn so much just by listening to your patients.

Fuck me, this hurts. Ms. Blanchard squeezed his hand as she hissed out the words.

One look told him he didn’t need to ask her to rate her pain. She was guarding, and her breath was labored. A nine, easy.

On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain? Dr. Leger asked.

Lee had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

Stupid question, the girl muttered, her eyes still closed. Then he watched a thought ripple across her face. Seven.

She’s tough.

How long were you hurting before you fainted? he asked, and her hesitation confirmed his guess. Lee knew before she answered that she’d likely hidden her pain as long as she could.

About half an hour... maybe more.

Has this ever happened before? he asked.

She gave a tight shake of her head. Then she opened her eyes, looked down at their joined hands, and released him. She squeezed her eyes shut again, as if that could block her pain.

"Can you make it stop?" Even though her voice shook with agony, she wasn’t begging.

Lee felt certain that she was vetting him, asking if he were up to the task.

And he wanted to say yes. He wanted to make the pain stop.

Eventually. We need to find the cause first. Any chance at all that you’re pregnant?

Hell, no.

Lee smiled as he plucked a pair of gloves from the supply table. I’ll need to do a pelvic exam.

She opened one eye.

Morphine first.

In spite of himself, Lee choked on a laugh. Dr. Leger folded her arms across her chest, unamused. I’ll be fast. I promise.

Mmm… what a catch, she rasped.

Lee bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing a second time. If she could crack jokes in this kind of pain, what was she like on a good day? Lee cleared his throat before speaking again.

Ms. Blanchard, I’ll need you to roll onto your back and raise your knees. I’ll keep you covered.

It’s Wren. First-name basis now, she mumbled before moaning and rolling over. But with the movement, her eyes shot open, and she began to pant. Oh shit... oh Jesus — What the fuck…

Lee slipped his right hand under the sheet and used his left above to palpate her abdomen. Beyond her cervix, he could feel swelling, but no adnexal mass. He pressed deeper.

Ten... Oh God, make it stop— she gasped, her voice hollowing out.

Lee looked up to see his patient had gone completely white.

Her pressure’s dropping, Dr. Leger said.

Shit.

She needs surgery. Now.

Don’t fuck up my ink… she whispered. Her eyes rolled back, and she was out.

As Lee scrubbed his fingers and hands — counting each stroke — he gave thanks that Dr. Jem Yeng, Chief of Obstetrics, was the attending on call and not Dr. Barrow. Lee had only scrubbed in on a few cystectomies, but he’d watched Barrow do dozens of hysterectomies, making calls about women’s organs he never would have made.

With his hands in front of him, Lee backed into the operating theater behind Dr. Yeng and waited for the scrub tech to fit him out with gown and gloves. He saw Mercer standing at the head of the surgical table where his patient was already intubated, giving him another measure of relief. Mercer was a friend, but he was also a careful and skilled anesthesiologist. Wren Blanchard’s emergency had come on a good day at UMC.

Dr. Hawthorne, she’s your patient. Why don’t you take the lead? Dr. Yeng offered.

Adrenaline surged in his blood. Lee had assisted in scores of laparoscopic procedures, but something about this particular patient made his heart race.

Thank you, Dr. Yeng, he managed. But when he approached the table and saw the flesh peeking through the square of surgical drape, Lee stilled. In an operating room, it was easy to forget that the body on the table belonged to an actual person. Swathed in blue drapes, heads nearly covered with masks and hair caps, patients barely looked human. Apart from race and body type, one patient resembled every other.

Except Wren Blanchard.

The abdomen in front of him was a work of art. A cherry-blossom tree in full bloom spanned her body from pelvis to ribs. Pink petals floated away in a breeze, and a flock of Red-winged Blackbirds was just taking flight. The dark branches and roots of the tree struck a stark contrast to her fair skin, as did the blackbirds. But the pink blossoms, each one blushing in its own way, could not have looked more natural — as if such images made their debut on skin before growing up from the ground.

Wow.

You should see the rest of her. Lee looked up to see the smiling eyes of the scrub nurse. It’s quite something.

She asked me not to mess up her ink, Lee said, bringing his eyes back to the masterpiece in front of him. I thought she was delirious. Clearly not.

Well, she’s bleeding, so you’d best get started, Dr. Hawthorne, Dr. Yeng chastened gently.

Right. He held out his hand for the scalpel.

In the end, he made two small incisions. One in the trunk of the cherry blossom just to the right of her navel. The other, lower, just above her pudenda, he was able to hide in the beautiful root work of the tree.

After Lee had corrected the ovarian torsion and removed the hemorrhaging corpus luteum, he stitched up the incisions as carefully as he could so that Wren’s scars would be tiny. For the first time in his career, he found himself hoping that his patient would be happy with his sewing skills.

Chapter Four

Wren waited in the carpool line. Her stomach started to hurt. Mamaw Gigi was late, and Mamaw Gigi was never late.

She looked over her shoulder back at the entrance to Myrtle Place Elementary and wondered if she should go tell her teacher, Mrs. Gibson. Would Mrs. Gibson still be in the classroom? Could she walk back there all by herself?

Hey, sugar.

Wren jumped, and Darryl laughed at her from the driver’s seat of Mamaw’s station wagon.

Where’s Mamaw? Wren asked, peering into the empty car through the open window.

Darryl winked at her. Your mamaw took a spill and hurt her elbow.

Wren’s heart started to thump hard against her chest. Mamaw was hurt?

Now, don’t go all scaredy-cat on me, sugar. She and your Papaw are getting her patched up at the hospital, and I told them I could pick you up from school.

Mamaw’s at the hospital? Wren’s lip began to tremble, and Darryl pushed open the passenger door.

She’ll be fine, sugar. Elbows are easy to fix. Climb on up here, and we’ll go get some ice cream.

Wren eyed the front seat. Mamaw doesn’t let me sit in the front. She says the back is safer for little girls.

Darryl nodded. Well, she’s right about that, but I thought you were a big girl. Hop up here. What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?

Wren didn’t move. Where’s Laurie?

A frown started to fold onto his forehead, but he shook it off with a smile. Your mama is sleeping off some medicine she took. Now, you need to get in this car if you want some ice cream... unless you’re planning to walk home tonight.

Wren’s eyes got big. Walk home? She’d get lost or kidnapped. She scrambled into the front seat and put on her seatbelt.

Now, that’s a good girl. A big girl... What did you say your favorite flavor was?

Ten minutes later, Wren sat in the front seat with rocky road in a sugar cone. Mamaw usually made her get it in a cup because cones dripped, but Darryl had said it was a good thing Mamaw wasn’t around today.

Wren licked the side of her cone and thought that she’d always want Mamaw around, but she was happy to get a cone.

Darryl sat next to her, sipping a milkshake.

Mmm-mmm, he said, drinking his shake and tilting his seat back. This sure is good. It relaxes me.

Wren nodded and slurped a marshmallow out of her ice cream. Marshmallows relax me, she said. She leaned back against her seat and sighed.

Darryl held his milkshake with one hand and put the other in his lap. A minute later, he began rubbing his fingers up and down the zipper of his jeans. Wren stopped