Sunday dinner, and my best friend was coming over. Misty vapor rose from the pot simmering on the back burner, brimming with raw chicken throats.
I set Billy’s place at the table with a red and white checked place mat. I looked at the kitchen clock. Billy was late.
There was a little blood on the corner of Mom’s apron. I asked if she’d cut herself. She looked askance.
“I don’t like you hanging out with that boy,” she said. “He smokes. I seen him behind the dumpster at Carson’s Drug Store.”
“Mom, you didn’t,” I said. “Not again.”