Historically, the Dixons never really did fit in. They didn't really care to. There was an orneriness embedded in their general approach to life that prohibited inclusion, except with each other.

"Blood is blood," Daddy loved to growl morosely from where he was ensconced in the ratty Lay-Z-Boy in front of the blaring, fuzzy television. Surrounded by a flock of spent, crumpled Schlitz cans, like shiny dead birds.

Daryl wasn't sure if he meant the blood from his split lip or something else. He just knew that being a Dixon had marked him in ways he couldn't see. But others could, from as far back as he could remember.

"Screw 'em!" Merle would shout when Daryl would return from school with a black eye or torn jeans. "Screw those pansies, little brother. You got whatcha need right here. You don't need nuthin' else. Right, Daddy?" And Daddy would nod and grunt and Daryl would walk away and peek in at Momma, sleeping in her tiny bedroom. Sometimes, there'd be a lit cigarette or a half-filled glass of whisky clutched loosely in one of her hands, dangling over the side. Daryl would tiptoe in, quiet, quiet, quiet and ease the danger away from Momma. He had always wondered what would happen if he didn't catch the glass or put out the cigarette in time. He found out soon enough.

And because he was a Dixon, he learned to dole out his own pain. Never to Daddy, but the kids at school learned to be cautious around him when he'd show up like a stray dog, inconsistent but never completely disappearing from classes or the dusty school yard.

All too soon, it was just he and Daddy, with Merle in juvvie and Momma in Heaven (Really? You believe that, you fool? Even God would have a hard time findin' a place for a Dixon…) and the tension in their cramped, falling-apart house crackled like electricity. Even at thirteen, Daryl realized that he didn't fit in at all, even with his own family. Something about him set his father's teeth on edge, like a song played slightly out of tune.

One day he came home with a schoolyard gash across his left cheek. Daddy took one look at it and got to his feet. For one crazy moment, Daryl though his father's hand was reaching out to caress his son's wound. But it was a fist, and it contacted with Daryl's right temple.

And later, when he woke to an empty house, crawling slowly to the bathroom to survey the damage in the warped mirror, he stared for a very long time at his battered face.

And for the life of him, couldn't see the difference between the blood dripping from either side of his battered face.

"Blood is blood," he sighed, and began to clean himself up.