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People love babies, even sick babies. Even crack babies. But babies grow up to be kids. Nobody really wants messed up kids.
Whatever it was, when Moses came to Levan, he was like water—cold, deep, unpredictable, and, like the pond up the canyon, dangerous, because you could never see what was beneath the surface. And just like I’d done all my life, I jumped in head first, even though I’d been forbidden. But this time, I drowned.
Moses must have felt me slowly plummeting into the abyss, because without another word, he reached out his hand and loosely took my arm, offering support. I loved him at that moment, more than I thought I could. Way more than our brief encounters warranted. The troublemaker, the delinquent, the crack baby. He was now my hero.
“Moses, Jeeps, seatbelts, home, Moses,” I listed, not even aware I was speaking out loud, and not caring that I’d repeated Moses twice. He’d earned two spots tonight. “What?” Moses leaned in and lifted my chin, his eyes worried. “Nothing. Habit. When I’m . . . stressed, I list the things I’m grateful for.”
She was a small town girl with a simple way of speaking and thinking, a frank way of being that turned me on and turned me off at the same time. I wanted to run from her. But at the same time, I spent all my time thinking about her.
