Chapter 8

Injecting his medicine often left no mark at all, but on occasion, he hit a blood vessel or something. Since Dakota wasn’t wearing any pants, his shoddy needlework lay in plain view. He silently reminded himself to go higher next time. Continuing, “It doesn’t even hurt. Kid was a weakling.”

Unconvinced, Ken returned to her seat at the table, where she’d been getting in some late-night homework. “It’s a weird-looking wound,” she muttered.

“I’ll put some antibiotic stuff on it.” Turning to the old man, “Hey, Fritz, can you call the cops in the morning? Those kids broke a window. I don’t want anyone else getting ideas.” And Dakota couldn’t contact them himself. There was always the chance they would want to talk to the caller. Moreover, it made sense that the next-door neighbor would notice the broken glass and call to report it.

He nodded without looking up from the scripture. “Yep. Will do.”