Everything seemed vulnerable and weak – the front door, the pane windows with wilting glass. I turned on the TV for noise, but there was nothing but news about the hurricane, now a category three in the middle of the Gulf, so I turned it off. I walked out the back door to the porch to smoke a cigarette and Worm was there, of course. He was crouched on the deck boards, his back against the shingled wall. He was wearing the same clothes as the day before. The ashtray was full on the deck next to him. I had seen him look worse, but not much. His skin looked like a potato’s skin and under his eyes it was purple and puffy. He had a new bruise on his temple and a cut along the edge of his chin. “Jesus,” I said. Worm stood and took a step toward me to give me a hug-handshake, but I lifted my cigarette to my mouth to keep him back. “Hey, Little John,”
