Lay Me Down

20. This is what's in me.

{Pete}

When Pete got home, he found Bea curled on the couch under the blankets from her bed, her thumb in her mouth and the light of her cartoons playing on her face. Her eyes went to him, and she lifted up her arms. "Daddy."

"Honey Bee, it's late for you," Pete said.

"Tabby's having a sleepover, so me and Cary are too. He's sleepin' already. I think he had a tough day."

He looked where she was pointing. In the corner of the room, there was a wooden school desk where Tabitha liked to do her homework. Cary had fit his large frame behind the arm of the desk and folded himself nearly in half with his cheek resting on the desktop. His face was turned to Bea, his eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and even.

Pete gathered Bea and her blankets into his arms. "Time to tuck you in."

She wrapped her arms behind his neck and laid her head on his chest. "You gonna tuck him in too?"

His arms tightened around her. "No, honey. Cary is too big for that."

"He's not too big." Her voice was muzzy with sleep, and she yawned. Her eyes closed and her breathing deepened before he'd finished saying her prayer.

Pete went down the hall, unbuttoning the collar of his dress shirt and glancing into the family room on his way by. Cary looked mighty uncomfortable folded into that tiny desk with his arms pinned against his body like they were. He crossed the dimly lit room, Bea's cartoons still burbling softly from the television.

"Cary." He pitched his voice low. He put his hand on Cary's shoulder to shake him awake.

Cary woke up all at once, starting up in the desk and nearly toppling over backward. At the sight of Pete, his face flooded with dread. Pete took a step back, looking away while Cary collected himself. "You can head to bed now—I'm home."

Cary blinked at the room and the cartoons. "Bea?"

"I tucked her in. Tabitha's staying over at a friend's house for the night."

Cary pushed himself free of the tiny desk and hobbled to the couch like his feet were made of wood. His shoulders were bowed. "Sorry, Mr. White."

"You just fell asleep," Pete said. "Nothing wrong with that."

Cary drew a breath and straightened a little, crossing his arms over his front. "How's Jon?"

"He's all right," Pete said. "I stopped to see him and Mel on the way home. They're keeping him at the hospital a little longer to treat him for shock. I guess you two had quite a ways to walk after he fell off his bike. My bike," he corrected himself, wryly.

"Sorry, Mr. White. I'll go back for it tomorrow."

"Well, I appreciate that, but I don't know what you're saying sorry for. The nurses were all talking about the fine job you did treating Jon as well as they would have themselves in the middle of nowhere." Cary's hands were clasping his elbows, and his bare arms were corded with tension. The marks of his old scars were faint on his skin on the underside—nothing fresh. Pete had been checking since Cary's knife disappeared from his dresser drawer weeks ago. He hoped the only thing Cary used it for now was goofing off in the ravine.

Cary's face was pale and flat. Pete added up the things that had happened today—the trial and Jon's accident—and wondered whether Cary would be able to talk to him about any of it. "Are you heading to bed, or do you want a cup of decaf?"

"I'm not heading to bed," Cary said.

Pete went to the kitchen, unbuttoning the stiff cuffs of his shirt and rolling them up. "I'll put on the coffee."