The sound of a foot against the floor is what wakes him up. The pain he feels in his body is secondary, but he aches awfully from his ear down his neck and shoulder. He feels cold, nerves frantic as the step comes closer, eyes squeezing tightly.

"Dallas?" The voice that hits his ears is scratchy, but the scent beneath it is soothing. Something in him doesn't like that, the soothing scent or the way the scratchy voice pitches lower, gentler. "Kid, that you?"

He lets out a breathy rattle, and unwillingly, a hiccup leaves him.

There's movement, and then he feels a hand tentatively grasp his shoulder. His eyes open sharply to see his Uncle Carmine there, his one good eye focused on him, the false one seemingly looking into nothing. That eye is what he wishes was fixed on him, not the good one that crinkles, not his warm, round face and bombastic, curly hair that frames his face. "Now, I know you're cold and all but this?" He gestures to the bed above. "I think you're using a bed wrong, you know, sleeping on a floor underneath it."

Dallas bares his teeth at him. He doesn't want to be touched, doesn't want to be coaxed. He doesn't want Carmine to be like this with him because it's so confusing. Whenever he's like this — which is always — he never knows what to make of it. Never knows if Carmine is being truthful with him even though he's never yelled at him, never shoved him.

He only does things like this, cocking his eyebrow at him, gently tugging at him. "I can leave you here, you know. You'll end up with a bad back like me if you do, though. And you're gonna miss the food I've got, and I don't think I can just eat everything I brought back by myself."

The mention of food alone makes Dallas' stomach ache. He shivers more, but his lips pull forward, and he allows Carmine to pull him gently from beneath the bed. It aches to stand up there, looking up at his uncle. Carmine's not that tall; Dallas comes up to his chest almost. But the man moves different than Texas: he's gentle as he nudges Dallas to the bathroom, only stopping to get a warm towel from a closet.

"You know I like everyone to be clean before they eat. You ain't look so hot — Just take a shower; I'll get some clothes for you, and then we can have the food, alright?" Carmine gives a smile that's unlike the sharp ones Texas gives. "Take as long as you want, it'll be hot no matter what."

At least, he trusts that. Dallas grasps the towel, and Carmine in his sleeves rolled up suit, his battered looking tie, leaves him. Dallas shuts the door, glancing at himself in the mirror: at the dark brown hair that looks half flattened, at how red his shoulder looks, at how small he looks. He bares his teeth at his reflection, and slowly, goes to the shower.

Like always, the water is scalding hot at Carmine's. He doesn't mind it as he showers quickly, only turning his head when the door opens and Carmine puts clothes on the counter and then departs. He takes just a few minutes, rubbing himself clean and then dipping his fingers into the vaseline that Carmine left to put in his skin. Then the clothes — a regular t-shirt, some jeans he has to roll up and some surprisingly warm socks are next.

It isn't a hard route to Carmine's kitchen. It's probably where he's been the most, Dallas lingering in the door way for a moment. The radio is playing, and he hears snatches of lyrics: When I want you in my arms, when I want you and all your charms. Whoever's singing, it's fitting for Carmine as he arranges bowls of hot food for them both: it smells good, something with beef in it.

"Why don't you get the water out the refrigerator? I know you don't care for lemonade," Carmine sticks his hands beneath the sink, and Dallas moves to the refrigerator. It's smaller than Odessa's but it's filled to the brim with other kinds of food in a more varied, vast array than what he's ever seen. He grasps the large pitcher of water, putting it on the table with both hands, and without pausing, takes a seat at the table.

It's a nice table — wooden, rounded. The chairs are sturdy too, and Carmine has made beef stew. It makes Dallas' mouth water as Carmine comes to give him a bit more in his bowl, shuffling around the kitchen as he talks. "I don't say prayers here, you know that. Just eat, and if you want more, you can get it."

Dallas grasps the spoon beside him, dipping it into the bowl and eating. He tries to not eat too fast, half out of some of the pain, half because the last thing he wants to do is vomit up Carmine's food. Without fail, Carmine always makes the warmest, most filling food and the stew isn't an exception. He eats it slow as he can, watching Carmine eat his placidly, the newspaper in front of him.

"So, you mind keeping me company for today?" Carmine looks up at him, eyebrows raised. "You're showered, you're dressed — I figured you might want to earn a few bucks for me, if you stay for a couple of hours."

He hesitates — there's always this terrible feeling in him that if he says no, Carmine won't keep him. That Carmine will put him out. He's never tried to say no before, even though Carmine has never done it. But what's the use in taking a chance? "I'll stay," Dallas says.

"Good, good," Carmine nods. "Won't keep you too long, but you'll get food while you're here." That perks up Dallas easily enough, and it seems to make some of the pain in him recede as he eats.

Out of everyone, Carmine had the largest place. Dallas thinks the word for it is a town house, and it's not a word that makes sense, but still somehow conveys how big it is. Even the kitchen fits it, and he doesn't ever mind it, liking how it feels, how it looks. He wipes at his mouth as Carmine offers him the newspaper. Dallas takes it, Carmine saying, "Could you read that article for the top for me? Don't make sense in me getting up for glasses when I'm paying you for it."

Dallas looks down at the paper, squinting at it. "May Day, 1957. Super... fickally?" Dallas glances up and Carmine's eyebrows work together. He hates tripping up on the first damn word, but he looks down again at it. "Super...fic?" He frowns again, annoyed and Carmine motions towards him. So like he's done a thousand times before, Dallas spells out, "S-U-P-E-R-F-I-C-I-A-L-L-Y."

"Superficially," Carmine corrects him gently. "Super-fish-al-lee."

"Superficially," Dallas repeats, "the May Day parades in many countries today will be the same as in earlier years." He doesn't know what the hell a May Day parade is, but Carmine doesn't interrupt again as he continues, slurping up the stew between words. "Mill-ins?" He knows that word isn't right.

"M-I-L-L-I-O-N-S?" Carmine asks softly. Dallas nods. "Millions."

"That's how it's spelled? Bullshit," He looks down at the word, annoyed, and his mind flashes back to the crate in Ace's room. "Words ain't ever spelled the way they should be."

"You think so, huh?" Dallas finishes the rest of his stew up as Carmine reaches over to pour some more water. "Maybe one day you'll get them to change the dictionary."

Dallas snorts and Carmine laughs. He continues to read the article, only stopped every so often until he hits an easy flow. By the time he's done, he feels tired; his ear and neck still hurt, but he's full and Carmine needs him. So he pushes back from the table, and stands up.

A glance to the clock and Carmine nods. "Alright, first thing's first. You remember how to dust, don't you? Cause if you don't—"

"I got it, I got it!" Hurriedly, Dallas moves quicker, discarding the sleepiness he feels to follow Carmine out of the kitchen to the main living room and foyer. It's good looking: he has shelves of books that line the walls, some alcohol that Dallas has never felt brave enough to taste, shoes lined neatly, nice looking walls. To him, he doesn't think it really needs dusting; but this isn't his space, it's Carmine's.

"You know where the duster is, right?" Once Dallas nods, Carmine hums. "I'm going to get some work done. In about two hours, you should be done dusting, cleaning up the kitchen and sweeping the floors. Once that's done, we're going to the market. We're having company for dinner, my back ain't good enough to support those groceries, understand me?"

"Yeah, zio," he hardly ever uses the proper word for uncle, except moments like now when Carmine is like this, giving him a list of things to do, of what to expect. It's as much respect as he can show, and Carmine seems to enjoy it.

He moves up the stairs, and Dallas goes to the steps, opening the door to the cabinet beneath it. It's stocked full of things — some are just household things, but he can see a shotgun propped up in the corner, along with shells beside it, and a brown paper bag he knows is full of money. Quickly, he grabs the duster, the rag beside it to wrap around his face and gets to work.

Carmine's house is more than his parent's house. More isn't really a good word for it, he knows, but it's all his limited vocabulary allows for him to think about the way that Carmine has statues, has expensive looking dishes, and cabinets that are polished to a beautiful burnished look. Where his father was sparse in almost everything and Odessa generally unconcerned with the basics, Carmine had more of his own touch to his place.

Dallas always tries to make sure he does a good job with what he does. He dusts and cleans the rooms as spotless as he can get them, giving more care to it than any task given to him by anyone else.

When the dusting is done, he goes to the spacious, almost mint green kitchen Carmine keeps to clean up their breakfast and to hand wash every single plate, cup, and kitchen tool that Carmine has — and he has a lot. Dallas knows that of all of his parents' people, Carmine is the most educated. He can see the diplomas framed on walls, has heard Carmine drop into words that are too long for Dallas to grasp the meaning of them, has seen Carmine pull down one of his huge books to look something up. Rarely has Dallas asked about it, yet he understands that those diplomas mean he's not just a street tough.

He sweeps the floors up last, feeling a little tired when he gets them all done, careful around the bookshelves, making sure he got into the smallest places. He checks the clock; he's gotten it done in an hour and a half.

There's a shuffle of movement above, and Dallas knows that Carmine will come get him when he needs. He flops down on Carmine's couch — it's nice, a soft mint green that resembles the kitchen — and shuts his eyes for just a few minutes, the meal from before finally catching up with him enough to make his limbs feel heavy.

In what feels like a blink of an eye, the sun has moved and Carmine is nudging his shoulder, "Dallas, c'mon. Gotta get up, kid."

"Mm'up," Dallas pushes back at Carmine, shaking his head. Carmine's good eye has an arched brow at him, and he's offering Dallas a denim jacket that must belong to some other kid. Dallas pulls it on; it's a size too big, and warm on him. He scrubs at his face as Carmine dons that dusty brown overcoat of his, grasps an umbrella and beckons Dallas into the street.


It takes several hours for them to do all the shopping Carmine needs. He takes Dallas up and down the various markets, shops, always intent on one thing and one thing only. Dallas holds bags for him, gives certain opinions on foods (always amazed by the way Carmine could tell a bad onion from a good one, a good bag of flour from a bad one), and makes sure that any hood who even thinks of getting close, stays away.

All the while, he looks out for Ace. He doesn't know if he's at school or stuck home. If he can get a message to him or check up on him, Dallas is waiting for it. The moment never comes though, as he and Carmine journey back with heavy bags back to his place.

They get inside, Carmine directing Dallas to put his shoes away. "I'm going to go down for a bit, take a nap. Best if you get one in, too, before Valerie gets here."

At the mention of her, Dallas shoots Carmine a look of surprise. "Aunt Val?"

"She's the dinner guest," Carmine hangs up his shabby coat with a smile. "You know she's a firecracker — so go get that rest I told you about."

Dallas doesn't understand an adult who needs a nap like a kid but he also can't argue that he isn't tired, either. So he goes to the room he has and instead of curling up beneath the bed, he climbs inside of it, pulling the somewhat stiff covers on him.

He wants to sleep, he does. The heaviness, the tiredness is there in his limbs yet Dallas can't cross over into sleep. Instead he stays awake, looking at the white ceiling, listening to everything in Carmine's house that still makes a sound from the clock down the hallway to the slight creak of a door pushed by the wind to the shift the floor gives when Carmine rolls over in bed.

He doesn't know what he's going to do after this dinner. He can only spend so much time with Carmine, not wanting to overstay his welcome, not wanting to wear out one of the two people who invite him inside. Sometimes he wishes that Carmine would just tell him to stay here, with him or that Val would tell him that she'd keep him. Even thinking that though, it makes his chest tighten, makes his fingers hurt. Other kids have done that before, stay so long that they're kicked out and never asked to come back. He's seen relations fray and sour over things like this and Dallas knows that if he pushes it...

He'll have nothing.

And he can't let those fragile bonds go. He can't bear to have to think that one day he can't just run to Carmine or Val's place in an emergency.

They're both his lifeline when he doesn't have anything else, and he knows that as soon as dinner is over, after Carmine pays him, he's going to spend just the night. And in the morning, he's going to go see Ace and they're going to figure this out.