Neither one of us said anything as I looked out the window, answering a few text messages. He pulled up into my driveway as I looked down at my phone. He sat with his left elbow on the door, his head on his hand, and his head looking at me. His other hand was on his thigh.

“Did you need to see a doctor?” I asked him in a whisper.

“What for?” His tone was a regular lazy one.

“You got punched in the stomach with those brass knuckles, didn’t you?” He sighed and ...