We rode out of that parking lot in formation. Caleb was in the sidecar of Big Tom’s rig, wrapped in a blanket, holding that grocery bag tight to his chest.
He didn’t say a word for fifty miles.
We stopped at a diner outside Memphis. Pike carried Caleb in. The kid was so light it was like carrying a coat.
The waitress took one look at us and one look at the boy and her face went pale. Big Tom slid a hundred dollar bill across the counter.
“Whatever this boy wants. And whatever he can hold down.”
She nodded. She didn’t ask questions.
Caleb pointed at a picture on the menu. Pancakes with strawberries. He whispered it to Pike.
“You can have anything you want, son,” Pike said.
“My dad says pancakes are for fat babies.”
Pike’s jaw locked. I saw his hand close into a fist on the table.
“Your dad ain’t here,” I said. “And he’s wrong about a lot of things.”
Caleb ate three pancakes. Halfway through the second one he started crying. Quiet, like he was scared to make noise.
“It’s okay, buddy,” Pike said. “It’s okay to cry.”
“I’m sorry,” Caleb whispered. “I didn’t mean to make a mess.”
He hadn’t made a mess. There wasn’t a crumb on him.
He was the cleanest, quietest, most apologetic seven-year-old I had ever seen. And that was the thing that made me have to walk outside and stand in the parking lot and breathe so I didn’t ride back to that house and end Travis with my bare hands.
