“That Money Belongs To The Family,” Dad Roared, Swinging The Metal Wrench Into My Face. My Jawbone Br0ke In Four Places, Teeth Scattering Across The Driveway. I Photographed Everything Before Losing Consciousness. The Craniofacial ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ Consortium Convened… “Fourteen Surgeons Reviewing Weapon ᴀssᴀᴜʟᴛ With Permanent Disfigurement – Aggravated Battery Documentation.”

She had been the only buffer between his temper and the three of us, and now that she was gone, the air in the family felt thin and dangerous.

Around four o’clock, just as I was collapseing the last table, I heard the familiar, aggressive rumble of Raymond’s old Silverado coming down the street. He pulled into the driveway too fast, his tires crunching over the gravel and a stray flyer I hadn’t picked up yet.

My body went rigid on instinct as he climbed out of the cab, smelling of stale tobacco and cheap beer even in the open air.

“Looks like you cleared the place out,” he said, squinting at the empty lawn with a look of calculation.

“Most of it is gone,” I replied, trying to keep my voice as flat and uninteresting as possible.

He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and stepped closer. “So, what’s the take? How much did we make today?”

“It’s about eighteen hundred dollars,” I said, immediately wishing I had rounded down or lied.

His eyes lit up with a sudden, hungry intensity that made my stomach turn. “You’re kidding. Eighteen hundred in cash right there?”