But my brother is also an idiot about things sometimes, and there was only so much I could do to help. I can’t change him. It has to be his choice to stop walking on the same needles.
He’s well-connected inside and carries a burner phone that the guards don’t attempt to confiscate, for reasons I’ve chosen not to examine closely.
“Dario, what’s up, man? Long time, no hear.”
“The wind outside has changed.”
He goes quiet. I catch bits of conversation around him, which means prying ears. “Yeah, I heard that. Do you think it’ll be a big storm?”
“Possibly. Probably. You catch the news?”
“No. What’s up?”
“There’s a hurricane coming. Those idiots at the weather center are up to the letter M now.”
He’s quiet again. “The Big M, huh? Spooky.” His sarcasm is false bravado. He knows exactly what I’m telling him.
“They should name them something scary, like Hurricane Tax Fraud.”
“Hey! I didn’t know my accountant was pulling that shit.”
I smirk, can’t help it. My idiot baby brother, taken down like Capone. “Just make sure you’re facing the right way when the wind blows.”
“How bad do you think it’ll be? No bullshit, Dar.”
“Cat four or five, easy.”
“Fuck. You think it’ll hit the family?” He means Lena and Opal. Renzo has been receiving letters from Opal for six weeks—she started writing to him after I mentioned I had a brother.
“Being handled.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You need anything from my end?”
“Not yet. Watch your back. That hurricane could land in the prison yard or anywhere else. You call me if the wind reaches you.” That’s half the point of this call—Marco has a long reach, and it goes all the way inside of Renzo’s prison.
“Will do. But don’t worry about me. I’ve been beefing up, working out. These guys, they know who does what around here. They’ve got my back.”
I swallow. Not sure why I feel weird hearing that.
No. I do. I don’t want someone else to have my brother’s back.
I clear my throat so he doesn’t hear it in my tone. “Good. Somebody should have your back, and fuck knows you aren’t careful enough.”
“Yeah, yeah. You either, by the way.”
“Talk later.”
“You better.”
When we hang up, I’m not sure how to feel or what to think. All I know is, I’ll feel better when I see Lena.
For about three minutes. Then, I have to send her and Opal away.
That evening Lena reads to Opal in the living room while I sit in my office with the lights low, going through contingencies the way I go through everything—methodically, without rushing, working through the variables in sequence.
I can’t do it. Can’t send her away.
The sound of her voice comes through the wall. I’ve memorized the cadence of it without meaning to. I know the slightly theatrical quality she gives it for the characters, the way she lets the suspense build before she turns the page.
