On the day we call the cops on him, L. tells me he’s always been a fighter.
No guns, though. He looks up at me from where he’s hunched, a skinny kid sitting on a rickety chair. Not before what happened.
What happened before was L. was riding his bike and some bad boys shot him in the spine. He wasn’t supposed to walk again. He walks fine now. He swaggers. His khaki pants are too big and he cinches up his belt higher than the other boys. I don’t think he can handle wrestling with the constant creep of a sagging waistline.