As he sailed through the air, he thought he was
saving *Benny* from the feeling he'd carried with him for a decade, but
as he connected with Benny, he felt a biting-down feeling, clean and
hard, and he knew he was defending *Drew*, saving him for once instead
of hurting him.
He was still holding on to the thumb, and Davey was inches from his
face, and he was atop Benny, and they breathed together, chests
heaving. Alan wobbled slowly to his feet and dropped the thumb onto
Drew's chest, then he helped Billy to his feet and they limped off to
their beds. Behind them, they heard the dry sounds of Davey getting to
his feet, coughing and hacking with a crunch of thin, cracked ribs.
#
He was sitting on their mother the next morning. He was naked and
unsexed by desiccation -- all the brothers, even little George, had
ceased going about in the nude when they'd passed through puberty --
sullen and silent atop the white, chipped finish of her enamel top, so
worn and ground down that it resembled a collection of beach-China. It
had been a long time since any of them had sought solace in their
mother's gentle rocking, since, indeed, they had spared her a thought
beyond filling her belly with clothes and emptying her out an hour
later.
The little ones woke first and saw him, taking cover behind a
stalagmite, peering around, each holding a sharp, flat rock, each with
his pockets full of more.
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