“Back home, you think?” Trey asks as he pulls the meatball truck out of the parking lot across from Aunt Mary’s. He winces turning the wheel, and I know his shoulder must hurt, even though he doesn’t like to admit it. “Home would be the logical guess,” I say. And then I let out a huge sigh. “Now what?” “I don’t know.” “Do you think he’s going to . . .” “No.” He puts on his sunglasses when we turn west. “Mom wouldn’t send us if she really thought he’d do it.” We drive in silence as the sun sets. Trey pulls into the alley and goes toward the restaurant’s back parking lot. There’s a portable fence now around our plot of destruction and there are NO TRESPASSING signs posted. Trey parks next to the delivery car and we get out. He glances in the delivery car’s window, probably to make sure Dad didn’t blow his brains out in the front seat or something. The substitute beat cop, Officer Bentley, is doing his rounds. He sees us and comes over. “I’m so sorry about your place,”
