Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.

believe: accept (something) as true; feel sure of the truth of

Say unto wisdom, Thou art my sister; and call understanding thy kinswoman: —Proverbs 7:4

Ian Howl was a piece of shit.

He and his boys had been sellin' dope in my territory, thinkin' that it was alright for them to bring their customers over there along with the fuzz—the fuck. I'd warned him, warned him real good, what would happen if I caught his ass, or any of his members, on my turf. I'd done a lot of shit, don't get me wrong, but sellin' wasn't somethin' I ventured into. It was a common rule in these parts—doin' that shit tore gangs apart, made members untrustworthy, and I couldn't have that. I kept things organized with rules and discipline, and I didn't take anyone's backlash.

So when I'd found out from a little birdy that Howl's boy, Diego Tamburro, was dealin' one block over from my house, I beat the shit outta him, sending his ass running back to Howl with his tail between his legs as a message. But Howl thought he was somethin' special, thought that he was a real wiseass, the prick, and he was about to learn the hard way that I didn't take lightly to people fuckin' with me. I figured that he would be waitin' around for me, waiting for me to strike, but I was a patient guy, and I took my time planning out tactics—kept the gangs on their toes.

I lit up as I walked down the back streets. It was dark out—the best time of day in my opinion. There had been a lot of shit goin' on recently, what with the fucking flower children taking over, and the gangs seeming to fade out? Things were different, different than what they used to be anyway, and it was getting harder to keep any sorta organization. I didn't like it, didn't take kindly to change like that, and I certainly didn't dig how the Socs were startin' to think that there was no longer a divide between them and us. Oh, but there was, and there always would be—that I was positive of. The separation of the classes and the past didn't just dissolve over night because the rich kids thought it could—not in my book, it didn't.

A car rounded the corner, slowing down as it rode along behind me, so's I jerked around to see if it was some punks lookin' for some trouble, only it wasn't, and the sight of the Doughnut Squad, Officer Dingel—Dingleberry—and his rookie the flapjack, starin' back at me through the windshield of one of Tulsa's finest police cars, caused a sneer to plaster my face. What in the almighty fuck did these clowns want now? Then again, it ain't like they ever needed a reason to harass the likes of me, or any poor bastard from this side of the tracks.

Dingleberry rolled the passenger side window down, makin' sure to flash his lights at me for good measure. He bent to one side, leaning across Flapjack, as he gave me a stern look, well, what he thought was a stern look anyway. Honestly, his chubby face only looked like a rolled up ball of dough, his cheeks like that of ol' St. Nick's.

"A little late for trouble, isn't it, Shepard?"

"And getting later."

He squinted, beady eyes seeming to disappear into his skin. "You gettin' mouthy, boy?" And then he was outta the car, tugging his pants up his ass as he marched over toward me. He was thinkin' that I was gonna bolt—I could tell from the look in his eyes. "Hands on the hood of the car, Shepard."

Oh, for Christ's sake, I thought. Didn't these morons have anything else better to do? I smirked, but Dingleberry shined his fucking flashlight straight into my eyes, nearly blinding the piss out of me as he repeatedly told me to put my hands up and bend over the front of the hood and to shut my mouth, blah, blah, blah—probably scribbled his rehearsals on his hand to make sure he didn't ever fuck up. I did as I was told, though, not in the mood to be dealin' with this kinda shit anyway.

Dingleberry patted me down, makin' sure that I wasn't packing nothin' illegal. He made sure to shove my face down into the hood, the metal cool and sleek against my skin. I'd only gotten outta jail a few weeks ago and wasn't exactly itching to go back, not like my asshole kid brother, who practically lived in the local detention center.

"I don't got any doughnuts on me, Officer," I stated smartly. "I didn't pay the shop a visit yet."

He was too busy muttering shit under his breath, going on about worthless hoodlums, and other shit that wasn't real important. He made sure to whack the back of my head, too, before tellin' me that I was free to go, and if he saw me lurking through the streets again that night, there would be repercussions, like he thought that I was actually out lookin' for his ass to pick me up and haul me in. If I'd been a Soc, he probably would have asked me if I needed a lift back home, a personal fucking escort, but I wasn't one of those trust-fund fuckers, and I was damn proud, too.

I made my way back to the house, going through two more smokes on the way.

Curly was sitting on the porch steps with a smirk on his face, lookin' like somethin' was real funny, but whenever he looked like that, it usually meant that nothing was funny at all, so I gave him a look that wiped his right off his face.

"Howl slashed your tires."

"That all?"

He nodded. "Guess he's responding for what you did to Tamburro."

"Sure," I replied calmly. "Sure he is."

But, like I said, I'm a patient guy, and I bide my time. Just when Ian Howl thought that I wouldn't do nothin' is when I would strike—until then, I needed to get the money for new fucking tires. Fuckin' Howl would pay for those, too.

Ma's boyfriend of two years—or something like that anyway—thought that he was my younger siblings' daddy or some shit. He liked to target Curly a lot, knock him around some, and Angela . . . he slapped her, too, I was sure. She didn't say anything to me, but I knew what in the fuck was going on, even when neither of them thought that I did. Curly asked for trouble a lot of the times, but he's okay for the most part. He just didn't like to think when it came to bein' smart about shit, liked to run his mouth and make like he was the big guy, but he was still my rough-necked kid brother, and that was that. Angela was different—she kept her mouth shut where it counted, but she was also littler than me an' Curly. Leon thought that he could yell at both of them, but not when I was around—never when I was around.

There had been plenty of fights in that house, fights that started in the morning, fights that clashed in the afternoon, and then the fights that stormed through the evening, and believe me, those were the worst fucking kinds. Usually, they would start with Ma bitchin' about something, anything because she had nothing else better to do but bitch, and then Leon would come barging in from work or the bar, start in on her, and they would go at it like cat and dog. And if any of us kids were around, they would jump down our throats just to add fuel to the fire.

". . . and you can't even keep a steady fucking job!" Ma was yelling. "Good for nothin'—" She slammed the refrigerator door shut, jerking around with her hands on her hips. "Do we even have any food in this house?" Her eyes scanned the room, until her gaze landed on me. "And just what the hell have you been doin' with yourself, Timothy?"

"Paid last months bills."

And she rolled her eyes. "Well, someone had to. Lord knows that Leon can't do shit!"

So Leon started in again, getting in her face. "Fuckin' bitch. I take care of everything else around this place, and what do you do, huh? Complain about every other fucking thing that you can't take care of, 'cause you can't take care of nothin'!"

And only when he got handsy with her, did I step in, shoving him off. "You ever raise a hand to her, and that'll be the end of you, got it?"

Leon didn't like me, but I didn't give a shit. He wrinkled his nose at me, the alcohol on his breath emitting around us, but he only eyed me after that, almost testing me. He usually didn't get smart with me, and Ma once relayed that I made him nervous. I didn't doubt that, not for a second. Leon didn't ever come after me, and whenever I was around, he went easier on Curly and Angela. We'd butted heads a few times, but nothing every turned drastic. I'd thought about knocking his block off a few times, pulverizing the shit out of him, but Ma would kick me the hell out, and then the bills wouldn't get paid, resulting in the utilities getting turned off. And then Curly and Angela would be fucked.

It had happened a few times, like one of them cycles—seemed to happen a lot with our family. Ma was always bringing home new guys; she'd keep'em around for a while, and only when they quit providing for her did she kick them out. I grew up being accustomed to her boyfriends. Didn't mean I liked it, especially when some of the other women at church would run their fucking mouths, saying some lousy shit about us. Ma was a real firm woman, though, and she didn't let nothin' get to her, a trait that she had passed to Angela. There was a difference between them, though—Angela, tough or not, never strayed too far from her sensitivity.

The sound of a bedroom door slamming shifted me back to the present, and Leon ripped himself outta my clutch, reaching inside the refrigerator to grab a beer. I narrowly saw Angela skim by, an arrogant expression on her face as she headed out the front door. I shook my head at her—she was fifteen years old with no real guidance and nobody to tell her right from wrong. She was changing more and more every single day, and her attitude . . . she was a force to be reckoned with. I followed out behind her a few minutes later, lighting up a cigarette.

"Where ya headed?" Curly asked from the porch steps.

"Got shit to take care of," I said, and headed down the road and out of the neighborhood.

Turns out that Connie Sanders was what I had to take care of. She and I dated a while back, but she kept comin' around, and whenever I felt up to entertaining her, I'd invite her to bed. She was always willing, which was nice—at least I didn't have to charm my way to get her. I liked Connie, though, liked her enough that I didn't mind her company. We'd talk sometimes, just talked about random shit that neither of us bothered to bring up in general. But there were no ties between us, so when I left her later that night, there wasn't any bad blood.

'Sides, I had other business to handle.

The Ribbon was busier than usual that night. Kids from all over were hangin' around, gettin' the dirt on everyone and everything else. Usually, I'd go if there was a good race or a good fight happening, or if I wanted to chase some skirt. The girls that hung around us hoods were usually the easy kind, so it wasn't like it was a real chase or nothin'. I spotted Dean Mathis a little ways down—he was alright, not the type of guy I'd buddy around with, but the type who knew what the hell was going on in town. He was known pretty well around here, neither liked or disliked, but the person who could fill your ears when it came to getting information.

"What's goin' on, Shepard?" he asked, sucking on a cigarette. There was a glint in his eyes, brows raising under shaggy blond hair. He reminded me of ol' Dally in a way, 'cept he wasn't as wild—not even close.

I eyed him coolly. "You see Ian Howl around lately?"

He gave me a funny look. "He's around." There was a sarcastic sound in his voice. "Saw him getting cozy with Lisa Andrews earlier. Why? He do somethin' to ya?"

Lighting a cigarette, I kept my face neutral. "You see him, tell him I'm lookin' for him."

I never bothered to elaborate on personal vendettas—that only invited more trouble into the mix, and the last thing I needed was Mathis running his fucking mouth. Business was business, and that was all there was to it, and right then, I needed to settle a score with Howl—the fuck.

"Sure," Dean replied casually. "Might not stick around for too long, though. There's a party goin' on downtown, supposed to be loaded with . . . fun." He winked. "All the booze and all the chicks." And then he turned serious. "But if I happen to run into Howl, I'll let him know you're lookin' for him."

I found Marielle Thompson later that night.

She was a friend of Angela's, or somethin'. They hung around sometimes, but Marielle wasn't really my favored kinda chick when it came to my sister's friends. Other than that, she was good lookin', had a mouth like a truck driver's, and (bonus) she was loose. She hung around with girls like Cheryl Hayes and Sylvia Evans. I scoffed, thinkin' of Dally's ex-girlfriend, now there was one helluva sleaze if I'd ever met one, but Dally hadn't done her all too good, either—they was always on and off.

"Hey, Tim," Marielle greeted, smiling up at me. "You want a drink?"

I looked her over. "Sure." And when she tossed me a can of Bud, I nodded to her. "What've you been doin' with yourself, kid?"

She scowled. "Nothin' too fabulous. Thinkin' about quittin' school, but that's about it. I think Angela is about ready to quit, too."

"The hell she is," I responded, downing the beer. "Speaking of Angela . . . you talk to her much?"

There was a sharp look on her face, and judging from her dilated pupils, she was pretty stoned. "I don't really see her, ya know? She's . . . somethin' else."

"How so?"

I wasn't particularly fond of this little chick, but she'd gained my curiosity. I knew Angela was a piece of work, always had been, but I didn't want her getting involved with shit she didn't need to. My kid sister always had a habit of finding trouble, or getting herself involved with it in some way shape or form, but quittin' school? Curly had done some fucked up shit, had gotten himself in trouble more times than I could count, and for stupid shit, no less, but I felt like I was forever babysitting my siblings. Lord knows that they were old enough to handle themselves, but they sure didn't act it. But Angela quittin' school? Christ, she was only fifteen.

Marielle shrugged. "I dunno. She's at some downtown party, though, I think . . ."

And then I remembered Dean Mathis and ground my teeth.

Fuck.

I hadn't been able to find Angela at the party, but I'd heard she was there. I was hacked off, to say the least. I usually don't set any boundaries for either of my siblings, but there were some things that I'd gone over in the past that apparently hadn't stuck with them like I thought it would. I was harder on Angela than Curly, and sometimes she hated me for it, but I didn't care none, because if she hated me for laying down some rules, than I was doin' something right. Curly was a different matter—he was hardheaded and could look after himself. He was usually with me anyway, 'cept for when I was taking care of gang related shit, then he stayed back on the sidelines.

He didn't understand my reasoning, either, but same thing went for him like it did with Angela—if he didn't dig my rules, I was doin' something right, plain and simple. I remembered havin' some similar conversation with Darrel Curtis once when he told me he was having some difficulty with his youngest brother—Ponyboy—the kid. I respected Darrel, and we had a good and mutual understanding for one another. He stepped up when their parents had died in that auto wreck, set aside his own wants and needs to take care of his brothers—he was okay as far as I was concerned. He might've had some trouble with the kid, but at least he had some brains upstairs—I couldn't always say the same for my own kid brother, but at least he could look out for himself.

But Angela . . . she drove me up a fuckin' wall sometimes.

So when it'd been confirmed that my kid sister was at that party, I was pissed—probably blue in the face if you looked close enough. I had made it clear to Angel that I didn't want her hangin' anywhere downtown. It was bad enough where the fuck we lived, and she didn't need to get wrapped up in any other shit that she'd been in lately. I had made her swear to me that she wouldn't ever lay a finger on dope, so I tried to believe that Willy Davidson was lyin' when he divulged to me that Angel had been poppin' pills and bending her elbow half the night while grinding on Dean Mathis.

I'd gotten home around one in the morning, comin' face to face with Curly, a new shiner on his right cheek—dumbass. He gave me a tired look, a half-smoked cigarette hanging loosely between his index and middle finger, his shoulders slumped over.

"Angela here?" I demanded.

Curly shrugged. "Yeah, I heard her get dropped off a few minutes ago. She went straight into the bathroom." He yawned, rubbing at his reddened cheek. "Ma knocked herself out again on Leon's whiskey, and that bastard ain't even around. Probably drunk in the gutter somewhere."

"No shit?" I replied, leaning back against the wall. I didn't give a damn how tired Angela was—I was gonna have a talk with her whether she liked it or not. I remembered the last time I'd barged in on her, finding her on the tiled floor . . . I'd thought she was trippin' out, but to my relief, she wasn't. Still, the memory haunted my mind, and I was never able to remove the image of my kid sister puking her guts up over the side of tub from my mind. "How long has she been in there?"

"I dunno," he answered lamely. "Since she got in. Maybe . . . ten minutes?"

And then a loud bang from the hall beside me alerted my attention to the bathroom, and I barely caught the expression of worry stretched across Curly's face. Before I could blink, I was standin' in front of the bathroom door callin' out Angela's name, a sinking feeling in my gut. I cursed everything under the sun before kicking the fucking door in and finding a scene that was enough to make me panic. I both wanted to slap her and call an ambulance, but I did neither, instead rushing in to inspect the damage. It took all of a few seconds to register what the hell had happened—the reminisce of vomit in the sink, and the intense odor of alcohol lingering around her.

I was on my knees beside her, calling her name to make sure she was coherent, and then her eyes slithered opened. It was a repeat of last time, only now it was real—she was trippin', and I felt like one of my worst fucking nightmares had just become a reality. I wrapped an arm around her head to support it, and I rapidly checked her pulse, eyes going wide when I registered just how faint it was. Curly walked in a second later, and I jerked around, teeth grinding together in anger.

"Call for a fucking ambulance!" And when he disappeared from sight, I turned back to Angela, noticing that she'd started to spasm, and I had to remind myself to keep calm. But calm ain't happenin', and I'm pissed, concerned, and panicked, so I pushed her hair away from her face and tried to reassure her and myself that everything would be fine. "You're gonna be okay, just stay with me, kid."

"Don't," she gurgled, pupils enlarged and black. "Let me die, Tim, let me die."

And then it hit me—she overdosed on purpose. I ain't sure what to think, but I knew one thing that's for fucking certain, and I let it be known to Angela quite clearly—fucked up or not.

"You ain't dyin' on me, kid." I gathered her petite frame in my arms, tryin' to keep her head up the best that I could, and bolted outta there, spitting out a blue streak of every obscene profanity known to man. I passed Curly, who was standing in the kitchen using the main rottery to call for an ambulance. "Don't fucking bother," I told him. "Ain't no responder gonna bother showin' up for the likes of us anyway."

So I fucking ran to the hospital that night with Angela in my arms, and I could only hope that I made it in time, because God fucking help me, but if she died on me . . . I'd fucking kill her.

And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive. —Matthew 21:22

I'd made it to the hospital, yellin' for help across the emergency center. Angela had passed out in my arms, and it was only when she was taken from me that I realized I was panting for air, legs stiffening from all that running, and believe me, I ran like the fucking devil was after me. It took all of a few minutes for some nurses to start questioning me, so I told them all I knew, the words flying outta my mouth left and right. Hell, I ain't even sure what the fuck had happened or what they were really askin' me, but I'd managed to come up with the answers somehow.

"My kid sister is having a bad trip; Angela Shepard; She's fifteen; Yeah, I ran all the way with her here; I don't fucking know!; Tim Shepard; I'm her brother; Nineteen; Surgery?; Well, you'd better fucking do somethin', 'fore that doctor ends up with me as his surgeon; . . . Okay."

And I paced the area after that, unable to stand still or think straight. All's I could think about was Angela overdosing on . . . whatever the fuck she'd taken, and what the fuck was gonna happen, and why she would . . . I rammed my fist into the wall, earning a few nasty glances from some bystanders in the waiting room. Fuck them. I couldn't believe it—Angela, oh, Angela, what the fuck did you do?

It took me a minute to remember that I had another dumbass sibling waiting back at the house, so I went and found a payphone, digging up some spare change from my pocket, and called. It only took a few seconds for Curly to answer, and before I could even tell him what was going on, he was bombarding my ass with questions. I told him to shut the fuck up, and when he went quiet, I told him that Angela was in surgery, she'd overdosed, and I was waiting to find out anything that I could. He was quiet, but then he told me that he was gonna wake Ma and come on over, though I'd shut that idea right down when I reminded him that we didn't have a fucking car to use at the present time, so he said he'd see me later on. Yeah, later on, because it was almost two o'clock in the fucking morning . . .

Goddammit, Angela!

I hadn't left the hospital.

When the gift shop opened, I'd went and got some smokes, goin' through an entire carton by the time Ma and Curly had gotten there in Leon's car—that bastard had come back to the house at six in the morning and passed out. I'd spoken to the doc earlier, and he'd said that Angela was gonna be alright . . . given some time. She had a lot of alcohol in her system, along with just enough LSD to nearly kill her. But for the time being, she was out of it, going in and out of consciousness. I didn't visit her room for quite some time, leavin' Ma and Curly to see her instead.

I'd ventured on outside, chain smoking. I didn't know if I wanted to beat the shit outta somebody, go and cause trouble myself, or . . . what. I was picturin' Angela up there in one of those rooms, layin' there half-dead and coming out of a drug induced sleep. How the fuck had she forgotten her promise to me? How the hell hadn't I made sure that the message sunk in? This was my damn fault—I hadn't made sure she understood enough, hadn't bothered to check in on her enough. I remembered, remembered her as a little girl—long dark hair, big blue eyes, and wide smiles—always comin' to me with every little problem she encountered. I remembered brushing her hair when Ma was too drunk to do it, or when she would come cryin' to me in the middle of the night after the old man split.

I remembered the slapping of little feet coming down the hall in the early hours of the morning, me tellin' her and Curly both not to worry about anything. I remembered holdin' Angela as a baby, Ma nearly unable to deliver her. I remembered the first fucking look she'd given me—her cries stopping almost instantly when I held her. I remembered tellin' Ma that I'd take care of her and Curly, that I'd look out for the two of them. I remembered beating the shit outta some middle school boy who told Angela that she was a stupid and ugly little girl when she was just ten years old. I remembered tellin' Curly to look out for her after that, and I remembered makin' her promise me that she wouldn't touch any type of dope whatsoever.

"If someone offers ya, or whatever, you say no, dig?"

"Yeah."

"I mean it, Angela."

"I promise, Tim."

You promised, Angela.

When I'd finally gone up to her room, it was late. Ma had left, Curly following suit, and I'd had a bad feeling that he was up to no good, so it wasn't a surprise when I'd called the house later to find out that he'd been picked up that evening for trying to holdup a liquor store. I pulled a chair up to the bed, lighting up a cigarette as I sat down, eyes hard as I took in the appearance of my sister—she was a real fucking mess. Ma had said she'd woken up while she'd been talkin' to her, but she was out again quickly, not sayin' anything. Curly only said that she looked like a vegetable, and he wasn't wrong.

"I hated Curly when Ma brought him home," I said, leaning back in the chair. "I really hated him for a long while afterward. I was turning four that Fall, and I thought I was a big guy then, so's havin' some stupid-ass, kid brother runnin' around wasn't somethin' I wanted." I took a drag of my cigarette, staring hardly at the wall beside the bed. "You know it took Ma three days to name him? Yeah, three fucking days to name that bastard." I remembered Curly and his head full of curly, black hair. "She named him 'cause of his hair; it was so fucking curly, and it grew in like a damn bush." Silence. "Then you came along a year later." Pause. "You was this tiny ass little thing, I swear. Ya know Pops couldn't even hold you . . ."

I stubbed the finished cigarette out a moment later, watching the shadows loom across the wall as the sky got darker. The stand beside the bed was filling up with my cigarette butts, not that I gave a shit, and the room was growing thick with smoke. Still, I reached for another, eyes drifting to Angela's face, taking in the smeared makeup under her eyes and across her cheeks, her hair a mess around her as she lay there not moving.

"You know something else? Ma was fucked up when she delivered you," I continued in a calm voice. "I remember standin' in this same hospital when you was born." Another pause. "The old man was locked up, so I was watchin' Curly that night; they let me an' him into the room to see ya at Ma's request, ya know?" I snorted, remembering Ma that night—she'd been out of it. "The hospital people had some nurse watchin' us 'cause nobody else wanted to, and 'sides, I couldn't really take care of the little shit, either." Another drag. "Doctors told me you was a miracle baby—that you must've had some angel lookin' over ya or something, 'cause with how fucked up Ma was that night, you shouldn't have been alive."

Another silence past, another cigarette was stubbed, and another one was lit.

I kept goin', though, wondering if Angela could hear me or not. "I told Ma that night to name you Angel, 'cause of that. But she didn't like Angel by itself, so she chose Angela." I inhaled deeply, shaking my head as I looked back at her face. "That was a whole of nearly sixteen years ago, kid. And now I'm lookin' at ya the same way Ma laid in that hospital bed— I didn't think I'd ever be livin' it all over again."

"Tim, why does Mama and Daddy fight?"

"Tim, can you brush my hair? Mama ain't outta bed yet."

"Tim, why did Daddy leave?"

"Tim, you ain't gonna leave me, are you?"

"Tim, can I sleep in here with you? I don't like Mama's new friend."

"Tim, James Romanowski said I was stupid, and he called me ugly!"

"Tim, I'm scared . . ."

"I promise, Tim."

All those years of reassuring her, of practically raising her, of protecting her . . . and just lookin' at her right then, all limp and unconscious—she was fifteen, dammit, she was just a little girl—my little girl, my baby. I needed to believe that she'd be okay. I needed to believe it for her an' me both. I didn't know what the hell I'd do without her.

My jaw clenched as my teeth pressed together, the pressure almost enough to shatter them. My fingers curled into a fist, but I stayed put, gaze intent as I took another drag.

When Dean Mathis showed up a day later, I nearly beat the piss outta him. But then he went on yappin' away about seein' Angela at the party, and when she'd said she hadn't felt good, he had drove her back to the house. Apparently, she had been drunk off her ass, and it wasn't the first time the two of them had encountered each other. From the look in his eyes—one which I didn't like—I could tell that there had been quite a bit more to the story than what he was relaying.

Dean wasn't my issue, though, but for good measure, I'd made sure to sock him real good for just dumping Angela at the house when she was that bad off. Apparently, there had been some kind of talk goin' around that Angela was a sleaze, and if that wasn't enough to make me blue in the face . . .

I'd told Dean to get lost, not in the mood to deal with any more of his bullshit.

The rest of the week had gone by slowly, and even though Angela was awake and conscious—for the most part—those days, she'd barely uttered a word. Ma hadn't bothered to swing by at all, which pissed me the fuck off, but I really hadn't expected her to. She and Angel had a messed up relationship, and I was pretty certain that Ma resented her. With Angela, she was lookin' for Ma's attention, lookin' for her to be the mother she never had been. When we was younger, things had been different, real different. Ma used to drag us kids to church every Sunday, but when I started getting into trouble, she only brought Curly and Angela, then just Angela.

I ain't sure what happened, or why Ma changed, I just know that one day she started ignoring all of us, and Angela, because she's the youngest, took it the hardest. Hell, she barely knew the old man, so to her, our parents were basically absent for most of her childhood. At least Curly had the extra year with them, and he was able to remember some of the good.

To pass the time, I'd taken care of some business, paid a visit to Curly, and had gotten cozy with Connie. But none of those things were enough to clear my mind, and every fucking time I went to lift a bottle to my lips, I thought about my kid sister laying in that fucking hospital, her miserable face and sunken eyes, and it made me sick, made me pissed. The beer bottle in my hand smashed against the back fence, the pieces of glass splaying across the lot. The doctor's words were replaying in my mind like a broken record—that Angela might recover from this experience, that she might not. It had nothin' to do with how fucked up she'd been, but more or less how much trauma she had endured, so's I guess that meant how the drugs actually affected her.

Still . . .

I walked to the one place I hadn't been in years—the church.

I ain't exactly sure why I went, or what I thought was gonna clear my conscious, but I went ahead in anyway, hands shoved in my leather jacket pockets, boots scuffin' the shiny floor. The place was quiet, and for a second, I considered on just turnin' around and bailing, but I didn't. I walked all the way in, feelin' real outta place, if you get me. It wasn't a surprise when Pastor Rollins found me a few minutes later sitting by my lonesome in one of the back pews.

"Timothy Shepard, I haven't seen you since you were young," he said, staring down at me with a small smile, one that made me scowl.

"Yeah, I don't usually drop in," I replied, but what I really meant is that I don't vandalize churches or any of that sorta shit.

His features remained smooth, though, as if he was unfazed by my presence. "How are you doing, Timothy?" When I didn't answer, he continued on leisurely. "You know, your sister was here a while ago," he divulged. "She attended a Sunday service, sat right where you're sitting now."

"Angela was here?"

"She was."

I snorted. "Well, ain't that somethin'."

Pastor Rollins looked thoughtful, and then he eyed me for a moment, slow like. "Your sister is a good person, Timothy, but she's very misguided."

"She is a good person," I agreed, leaning back in the pew and crossing my arms over my chest. "But look, Pastor, I ain't in the mood for chatting right now. I ain't even sure why I'm here, but I guess I needed a quiet place to do some thinkin' if that's alright with you."

He nodded, expressing sympathy. "Well, you're in the right place. I'll leave you with the same message I gave to Angela." And then he said somethin' real interesting, sounding almost tired. "God's house is always open to those who have faith." And then he was gone.

I sat there for a while, contemplating my thoughts, before doin' what I'd come there to do. At first, I'd felt like a blasted pansy, but when the doc's words replayed in my mind again, I suppose I didn't really give a shit how I looked.

"I usually don't do this, but if you're listenin', God, I need you . . . and Angela . . . she needs you . . ."

Angela was up and awake when I visited her later that day. She looked a little better, but she still looked like absolute shit. I lit a cigarette in the doorway, giving her a sharp look, before walking all the way in and kicking the door shut behind myself. The air was stuffy, so I cracked the window, rolled the chair beside the bed, and sat down. Angela was quiet, and I didn't bother to ask her how she was doin' or nothin'—she would talk when she was ready.

"I killed Betty Morris."

I stared at her—Angela—a hard look on my face as I remembered her friend Betty. I don't recall what exactly happened, but she'd apparently died of an overdose or some shit. Yeah, that had gotten all over town, and what was said about it all ain't pretty. She had been found in her house or somethin', and I ain't sure if it was by her mother or brother, or someone, but it ain't a good story. I remembered Angela on the floor in the bathroom, vomit on her chin, foamin' out the mouth . . .

"Thought she overdosed."

"I sold the drugs to her."

Silence.

"Did you force them into her body?"

"No."

"Then you didn't exactly kill her, did ya?"

I remembered the doc's words, and suddenly felt angry. At that moment, I was relieved that Angela was seeming to be doin' much better, but this talk wasn't what I wanted to be hearin'. I didn't know if it was an enthralling idea to bring up the party or any of that—I figured I could do that another time.

"I did," she replied after a minute.

"Betty's been gone over a year, Angela. If you care about what happened to her that much, say a prayer and ask for forgiveness."

"I don't say prayers anymore."

"Well, do it anyway," I snapped. "Maybe you'll get some kinda righteous mercy and get a free pass to the golden gates or whatever." I rolled eyes, remembering where the hell I'd just been earlier that day, and shook my head at the thought. "Look, you think Betty would forgive ya?"

"For giving her the dope?" Her face twisted, brows pulling together.

I stared at her firmly. "Well, if you gotta ask that, you ain't all that guilty of killin' her, are ya?"

"What about you?"

And I looked her over, remembering my own promise that afternoon. We didn't need to be talkin' about this shit, not then anyway. So I told her the truth and hoped that she understood this time, 'cause I, even though I'd been ready to beat the shit outta her the night of the party, didn't want to think about it anymore. All's I kept thinkin' about was seein' Ma laying in that hospital room years ago, in that bed, hearin' Angela's cries as a baby, her promise . . .

"Ain't nothin' to forgive."

A few days later, Angela was released and things went back to normal. The only thing that wasn't quite right was that Angela didn't bother to talk to anyone. I'd let her know about Dean Mathis stoppin' by and how he'd given me the lowdown of what happened that night, and all she'd done was nod her head in acknowledgment. She didn't speak, didn't look at me straight, and hardly came outta her room. I'd been expecting all of it, though, so I didn't bother to say anything to her.

Instead, I let things gradually return to the way they were, hoping that Angela would come outta her shell soon. I never bothered to care about faith much, but I had to believe that my prayer, or lack of, had been heard, because that's the only thing I had to go on.

In the meantime, I had a score to settle with Ian Howl.

So that's what I did . . .

I passed Angela on the porch, and when I saw the ghost of a smile appear on her face, I was reminded of that little girl again, and I remembered why I was able to be heard.

Thank you for reading! :3