[i][b]Chapter One[/b][/i] [right]2.[/right]

	“We’re doing fine,” Cole said, followed by a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you for your concern.”
	
	“Alrighty then,” the officer drew out the first word. “You boys take care of yourselves. Give the station a call if you need anything.”

	“Will do, sir,” Cole said, gently closing the door after Dillon stepped in. The officer’s gesture was made on good intentions, but their home had no working phone. Cole worked a mediocre factory job tirelessly enough just to put food on the table, much less buy a [i]phone[/i].
	
	Having been distracted for only a brief second by his thoughts, Cole then turned to the teen who had just lazily sprawled out on the worn couch, and pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re a bum,” he growled, almost sounding exasperated.

	“Yeah, and you’re right ugly,” Dillon retorted, forearm thrown over his eyes. “Tell me something new that might make me give a damn.”

	Cole’s frustration was overwhelming him. He could feel it in his chest, and he could feel it clouding his head. Several deep breaths through his nostrils lightened it a bit, but the agitation couldn’t be ignored. Another rant with raised voices, most likely leading to a brawl would not alter this kid’s attitude or change his mind about life. It seemed like nothing would. Dillon was too distraught, sulking and troubled from his mother’s suicide, and oh, his vanished father and murdered step-father who had abused him all his life prior to his death. That’s what people said. The truth was that Dillon had his biological father’s blood in his veins. He was a thief. A lying, apathetic thief.

	“You just don’t care, do you?”

	“Umm, nope.”

	“You’re no better than Dale, or dad for that matter,” he added. “Speaking of which, why don’t you go find him and mooch and live off of [i]his[/i] money? Go rob a bank together. [i]Perfect[/i] father-son bonding time.”

	It was a pathetic excuse for a proper insult, but it drew Dillon to his feet in anger. “Fine,” he said, voice raised just below a shout, but calm. He reached into his coat pocket and Cole flinched, thinking his brother was about to pull a gun on him. Instead, three wrapped cinnamon buns were flung onto the carpet in front of him.

	“If you’re so against it,” Dillon said, uncharacteristically beside himself, “[i]Don’t eat one.[/i] Let the girls split it.”

	He waited, silently begging Cole for a response. Receiving none, he turned and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

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