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“Thanks. You, um …. You did a good job. Sitting still all the way here.”

“Thanks.” His little feet hang off the edge of the bench as he sits fidgeting. “What’s yew name?”

“Ce--Carly.”

“Cecawly? Das a weird name.”

I chuckle at his comment, the tension slowly settling in my stomach. “Carly. My name is Carly James. What’s yours?”

“Dustin.”

“Dustin?”

“No. Dus-tin.”

“Dustin,” I repeat again.

“No, no. Say it wif me. Duh.”

“Duh.”

“No. Das wong.” He slaps a hand to his forehead, and I glance around, wishing his mother would hurry up, because I feel bad that I don’t understand what the hell he’s trying to tell me.

“Does it start with a D?”

“No. A dzaaaay.” Okay, so maybe I was off about his age, because I’m not sure a three-year-old knows how to spell his own name. Unless, maybe they do.

“Okay, so it’s Justin?”

“Yessss!” He kicks his feet in what must be sheer excitement, and again, I find myself chuckling. “Hey, Cawly?”

“Yeah, Justin?”

“I weally, weally have to go potty.”

Shit.

“Um. So … what do boys do? Just … go outside, right? Pee on buildings, or something? You can probably pee on that wall right there.”

“No. I don’t mean pee.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

11

Céleste

Justin holds my hand as we walk up to the door, and the moment I throw it open, I’m greeted by an enormous wall of human meat and muscle. The bouncer, by my estimates, but the way his pissed-off eyes scan me up and down, he reminds me of a bridge troll.

I lean to the side, trying to see around him, but the guy damn near takes up the whole width of the door. “Hey, so, his mom just went inside. I’m just going to go look for her, if that’s okay?”

A massive bicep blocks my path before I have a chance to take a step inside.

“Hi, Wevi,” Justin says, slipping beneath the man’s arm, as if he’s done it a hundred times before.

When I try to do the same, a tight grip of my shoulder holds me in place.

“I need some ID,” the monster says, yanking me back outside.