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after Dex came for her, around eleven, wearing his white Miami Vice jacket and Ray-Bans, his costume screaming I am living for this ridiculousness,
“Poindexter Howard,” Dex said, grabbing one finger gun by the barrel and shaking. “Friend to the friendless.”
“Dunks run,” he said. “Right on schedule.”
Someone nearby was tripping chromatically across a piano’s keys. “That’s perfect,” whispered Dex. “That’s the perfect music for descending creepy steps. Let’s go.”
“We’re looking for a back door,” said Archie. Dex bit down hard on his tongue.
Maybe this was how adult friendships happened: by accident, embroidered over time, visible only from the height of years.
