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—Uh-uh.

—Suit yerself.

I step out of the way as he heads for the kitchen.

—There’s something wrong with my water heater, so turn the cold on all the way and don’t touch the hot. Otherwise, you’ll burn your hide off.

I close the door, turn on the shower, and peel Sid’s filthy clothes from my body. My right ankle is puffy and bruised, but I can move it. Steam is already pouring from the shower. I stick my hand in to test the water and just about sear the flesh from my fingers. I wait another minute and climb over the side of the tub. It’s way too hot, but I can take it. I let the water run over me, sluicing off the grime and sweat of the last couple days. The water soaks the crusty bandage on my left thigh and I strip it away. The wound has mostly scabbed over, but a slight ooze of blood is leaking out from a crack at the edge. I scrub my body hard with the bar of Lava from the scummy shower caddy. Slowly, tension eases from my muscles and the pain in my head recedes, but the anxiety and the guilt stay right where they are.

I get out, find some Band-Aids under the sink, and stick a couple over my wound. I wipe steam from the mirror and look at myself. The cut over my left eye is closed up. I have bruises on my shoulders and ribs and a big one across my chest where the Monte Carlo’s seat belt caught me during the wipeout. My hands and knees are scraped up from all the falling down I’ve been doing.

I look at the tattoos. They start on my left forearm, run up to my shoulder, across my chest, and down to my right wrist. When Dad saw them he made the same sound he made when he saw me light a cigarette. Mom kind of liked them. She touched the one that says Mom and Dad, shook her head at the naked pinup on my right bicep. Tears leaked from her eyes when she saw the banner on my chest with Yvonne written on it. I hold up my left arm and look at the hash marks. Still one short; got to get Mickey on there.

I carry the trashed clothes to the kitchen, a towel around my waist. T is drinking a beer and eating a Hostess Fruit Pie.

—Want one?

My stomach is tight and empty, but I don’t feel hungry.

—Pass.

—OK, but there ain’t much else.

—I’ll manage.

He scarfs the last bit of crust and gooey cherry filling and washes it down with the dregs of his Bud. I hold up the clothes.

—Any place I can dump these?

He takes them from me.

—I’ll take care of ’em.

Hitler wanders in from T’s bedroom and growls at me. T comes around the counter to me.

—Here, we gotta take care of this.

He wraps his arms around me.

—T?

—Hitler needs to see you’re a friend.

—Oh.

We stand there like that for a minute, T embracing my half-naked body, Hitler sniffing around us as T whispers to him, calling him a good dog, telling him I’m a friend. Hank Williams singing “I’ll Never Get Out of This World Alive.” And even in this context, it feels so good to be held.

T lets go of me, takes a step back, and Hitler comes over and licks my hand.

—That should keep him from eating your balls.

—Come again?

—He’s a rape dog.

—Come again?

—He’s an attack dog. I had him trained by these guys in Colorado who specialize in dogs for victims of rape, women who have some serious fears based on fucked-up personal experience. So he’s trained to go for an attacker’s balls or neck. Whatever’s closest.

Hitler sniffs my crotch.

—OK, I’m gonna head out to work for a couple hours and then I’m gonna pick up some clothes for you. A disguise. How ’bout that? Later we’ll go find your guy’s place. There’s a robe in my room. Help yourself to whatever else you find. I’m gonna take some of this money for the clothes, OK?

He scoops up a handful of money from the pile on the coffee table. He opens the door, turns, and looks at me.

—You sure about that pick-me-up, man? You look like shit.

I stand wounded in his living room, my bare toes flexing in the greasy fibers of his carpet. I look around at the beat-up couch, the brick-and-plywood coffee table, the milk crates stuffed with vinyl and paperbacks, the stacks of porn videos surrounding