He remembered kneeling on Davey's chest, holding the rock over him and
realizing that he didn't know what to do next, taking Davey to their
father.
Only Davey had struck him first. He'd only been restraining him,
defending himself. Alan had hit Krishna first. "Nod if you understand,
Krishna," he said, and heard a note of pleading in his voice.
Krishna held still. Alan felt like an idiot, standing there, his
neighbor laid out across the railing that divided their porches, the
first cars of the day driving past and the first smells of bread and
fish and hospital and pizza blending together there in the heart of the
Market.
He let go and Krishna straightened up, his eyes downcast. For a second,
Alan harbored a germ of hope that he'd bested Krishna and so scared him
into leaving him alone.
Then Krishna looked up and met his eye. His face was blank, his eyes
like brown marbles, heavy lidded, considering, not stoned at all
anymore. Sizing Alan up, calculating the debt he'd just amassed, what it
would take to pay it off.
He picked up Alan's wine glass, and Alan saw that it wasn't one of the
cheapies he'd bought a couple dozen of for an art show once, but rather
Irish crystal that he'd found at a flea market in Hamilton, a complete
fluke and one of his all-time miracle thrift scores.
Krishna turned the glass one way and another in his hand, letting it
catch the sunrise, bend the light around the smudgy fingerprints.
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