Free Ravens by George Dawes Green

tucked his pistol into the holster that fit
     against the small of his back, and put his dull corduroy jacket on over it, and they went off together, in Tara’s Geo. They
     went by way of Norwich Street, which seemed to fascinate him. He told her to slow down so he could look at things: the down-at-heels
     bodegas and money order stores and old men sitting under oak trees playing dominos. Then they left the Mexican neighborhood
     and came to the black neighborhood: custom-wheels shops and Marvin’s Grocery, and one storefront church after another. Shaw
     read aloud their names: “Fisher of Men Ministries.” “Healing & Deliverance Bible Institute.” “Christ’s Church for the End
     Times.”
    “Jesus,” he said. Laughing. “What a great town.”
    She drove and kept silent.
    “Tara,” he said, “are you worried?”
    “Yes.”
    “Don’t be.”
    “I know I’ll give it away.”
    “No. I’d kill you in front of her. Wouldn’t be that hard on you, but for her it’d be better if she’d never existed. Like her
     whole life was just the build-up to this suffering, and she’ll regret every minute of it, everything she ever did because
     it all leads up to watching you die. I’m sorry to say it so bluntly. But you have to fool her. You
have
to. So you will.”
    Shaw looked at her for a while. Then he turned away and watched the city go by and thought: what
I
have to do is keep this fire going. This furnace of black flames. Be unafraid to have it inside me. Be willing to create
     every horror. Fear becomes discipline becomes profoundest love, and if I don’t hold these people to the highest standards,
     everyone’s life will turn into shit. If I’m timid, or irresolute, it all goes to shit. For all parties involved. Everything
     rests on my shoulders here.
    Romeo awoke to the sound of a car outside Wynetta’s trailer. Christ, what’s this, a boyfriend? He went to the window. In the drive
     was some kind of official van, from which a black man in white uniform was emerging. He didn’t look to be a boyfriend. He
     looked like he had business here.
    Romeo gave Wynetta a shake. “Someone’s here.”
    She growled in her throat and turned away.
    He pulled his jeans on. Through the window he saw the black man lower a ramp from the side of the van, then roll out a wheelchair.
     In the chair was a child, all bundled up: the oddest-looking child Romeo had ever seen. Frail and hairless, Victorian, consumptive-looking.
    Romeo shook Wynetta again.
    She opened one eye. “What the
fuck
?”
    “Hello?” called the black man from outside the door. “Hello? I have Mr. Santos here.”
    That finally roused her. “What? Oh my God. Wait!”
    She grabbed her bra from the floor. It was a full harness, an iron maiden, and it took her a while to get it all fastened.
     Then she struggled to get her shorts on, and her T-shirt, and opened the door.
    The black man was standing there, with the child cradled in his arms.
    “Daddy!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
    The child rasped, “I’m not. Dying. In that place.”
    Close up, Romeo could see it wasn’t a child at all, but a withered old man. The black man — evidently his nurse — carried
     him to the bed and laid him down.
    Said Wynetta, “He checked out of the hospital?”
    “Marcus? What do they. Call it?”
    “AMA,” said the black man. “Against medical advice.”
    “That’s,” said the old man, “me.”
    Wynetta said, “You gotta go back, Daddy. I’m supposed to go to Tifton today. With Jesse.”
    “Well. Good.”
    “But I can’t just leave you.”
    “You can.”
    “You’re too sick!”
    “I’m fit. As. A fiddle. Except for the. Dying.” He gave Romeo a wink. “Son. What’s your name?”
    “Romeo.”
    “Mine’s. Claude. Santos. Pleased. To meet you.”
    Lifting his hand from the bed. Romeo held it a moment, then stepped away when the nurse came back in with his IV setup. The
     man had a deft touch. He coasted his thumb along