Page 52 of Tiny's Testament
Capone stands with Blayze near the fence, scanning the edges. Bones and Aftermath man the grill like competitive uncles. Jezebelle hustles a raffle with a voice that could talk down a riot. Brotherhood looks like a checkered tablecloth, grease-stained napkins, and a dozen eyes always counting heads.
Tiny hangs back by the gate, sunglasses on, cut open at the front like he wants air he can’t get. People wave. He nods. He’s here, but his focus keeps sliding south.
I bring him a bottle of water. “Hydrate or Nadia’s gonna choreograph your funeral.”
“Cruel,” he says, but the corner of his mouth lifts. He tips the bottle against my knuckles, a small private touch nobody else can see. It clears some static in my chest.
“Everything okay?” I ask. “For real.”
His answer takes a beat too long. “Red found something we need to trace. It’s fine.” That means it isn’t.
Before I can push, Ms. Emerson heads straight for us, earlier steel wrapped in a teacher's calm. “I’ve read some of the pieces on the Royal Dancers blog,” she says. “Whoever’s writing them really understands these kids.”
My pulse jumps, but I keep my expression neutral. “Yeah,” I say lightly. “They’ve got a good voice.”
“They do,” Ms. Emerson agrees, glancing toward the stage. “It’s rare to see that kind of empathy in print.”
“Guess they’ve been listening,” I reply, forcing a smile.
Her gaze lingers a second too long. She’s a smart woman, probably connecting dots I can’t afford for her to. She turns to Tiny. “And you must be the one making sure Dagger doesn’t turn shop class into a demolition derby.”
Tiny deadpans, “His sermons keep the bolts in.”
Ms. Emerson’s mouth softens. She clocks everything about Tiny, from the grease permanently on his hands, the careful distance he keeps so he doesn’t crowd me, the gratitude in how he nods to the kids, and the hair on the back of my neck rises. She extends her hand. He shakes it. No flinch. Respect meets respect.
“You’re all full of surprises,” she says, eyes flicking between us. “Prove me right.”
Dagger, who has materialized as if summoned, blurts, “We will.”
She arches a brow. “By submitting weekly objectives.”
Dagger pales. “That a euphemism?”
“Academic standards,” she says.
“Right,” he wheezes. “Love those.”
Tiny leans close enough for his breath to brush my ear. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I lie, then smile. “She’s gonna eat Dagger alive.”
“Good. Man needs humbling.”
Laughter ripples. It lands in my ribs like medicine. For a few minutes, the doubt quiets.
As the younger set files offstage, the patch bunnies swarm the lemonade stand like it’s a runway. Glitter, denim shorts, hoop earrings big enough to lasso a steer. They’re not villains, most are chaos with good hearts. But some, well, some thrive on cracks.
“Syv!” Honey calls, wiggling a cup with three lemon slices. “We made the good sugar batch. Want?”
“Bless you,” I say, taking it.
Gigi leans in, voice bright and sharp. “You and Tiny looked cozy. Finally!”
A third patch bunny, Trixie, pops a gum bubble. “About damn time someone kissed that man before I did.” We laugh. It feels like a sleepover where the knives are optional.
Honey nods toward Tiny. “He keeps watching the perimeter like it owes him money.”
“Job hazard,” I say.
