Fallout (Crank 3)

him after eight years in prison,

eight more years of him being nothing

to me but sporadic collect calls?

“I don’t know,” I tell Grandfather

as he turns into the passenger drop-

off zone, pulls over against the curb.

“I’ll have to think about it.” I get out

of the car. What I said was a lie. I know

exactly how I think about it. I hate Trey

for leaving me. Wish I could love him,

but don’t have a clear idea how.

Do I want to see him? Part of me does.

The other part thinks he ought to take

a flying leap off a very short pier. Maybe

“I don’t know” wasn’t a lie after all.

I’LL NEVER FORGET

The last time Trey blew back

into my life. I was almost five,

and he was on parole after

serving two years for fraud.

It was not his first time in lockup.

When he came to the door, I had no

idea who he was. Grandfather and

Aunt Cora don’t keep many photos

of him, and the ones they do have

are from long before he ever

started messing around

with meth. He is handsome

in those pictures—tall and strong,

with dark hair and curious gray