Page 13 of Thunder

I try not to let that thought get comfortable.

* * *

By the time we turn back toward home my hip is screaming with agony, and the ride home is a long negotiation between me and my own body about how much further it's willing to carry me before it makes a scene.

I win, but barely.

I always win, but it costs more every time, and there's a cold little voice in me now that's started asking how many wins I've got left before the leg stops taking the bribe.

I don't listen to that voice.

I get home a little before dark, ease the bike into the shed, and stand there a second with both hands on the seat, letting the leg get its story straight before I ask it to walk me to the porch.

Mama Lou's car is in the drive.

The kitchen window's gold and there's smoke off the grill out back, which means she's not only dropping off Raine, she's fed her and she's fed me too.

Something in my chest that's been clenched since the Kimble line lets go all at once at the sight of it.

Whatever's out there on the road tonight, it's out there.

In here it's my mother, my kid, and a supper I didn't have to cook.

"Daddy!"

Raine hits the screen door at a run and I get my feet set so she can slam into me without putting me on the ground.

I catch her up and swing her once even though my hip screams bloody murder about it, because you swing your kid, that's the deal.

I don’t care how much pain I’m in, I’m still her father.

"How was Grandma's?"

"We made a pie and I did two whole worksheets, and Grandma let me have a Coke with lunch, which she said not to tell you about." She's got flour in one braid. "But I'm tellin' you about it because keepin' secrets from your daddy is wrong."

"That's real big of you."

I set her down.

"Rat out your grandma first thing."

"Mama Lou," my mother calls from the kitchen, unbothered, sliding a pan onto the stovetop. "She gets to call me Mama Lou like everybody else and you get to hush about the Coke. Wash up, both of you. I made too much, so you're eatin' like you mean it, Thunder, you've gone thin."

I have gone thin.

Getting shot'll do that.

I don't argue with my mother about it because you don't win those either.

We eat at the kitchen table, the three of us, chicken off the grill and my mother's potato salad.

The kind of easy noise a house makes when there's a nine-year-old in it, and for a little while I let the road stay out on the road.

Raine talks enough for all three of us.

Mama Lou watches me eat with the happiness of a woman confirming her son isn't going to waste away on her watch.

My leg throbs under the table, and I ignore it, and it's the best I've felt all day.