She turned the water off. She came back and sat down and took both his hands in hers, which were cold and smelled like the hospital's green soap.
"Here is what we are going to do," she said. "We are going to get some sleep. And tomorrow you are going to decide what you want to do about it, and whatever you decide, I'm with you. If you want to press charges, we'll press charges. If you want to let it go, we'll let it go. It's your neck. Literally." She almost smiled. "But I want you to know that the rent's not your job. The rent is my job. You don't decide anything because of the rent. Okay?"
"Okay," he said, which was what he always said, and they both heard it.
* * *
The letter came on Tuesday.
It was in a cream-colored envelope with PRAIRIE HOLDINGS, INC. engraved in the corner, and it informed Mrs. Linda Kowal that pursuant to the terms of her month-to-month tenancy, the monthly rent for 1114 Ninth Street, Unit B, would increase from $310 to $425 effective September 1, 1985. It was signed by somebody named B. Tolliver, Property Manager. It said nothing else. It didn't have to.
Danny found it on the counter when he came home from his matinee shift. His mother was asleep. He read it twice and put it back exactly where it had been, at the same angle, and went out and rode his bike to the Dairy Queen on Main and sat at a picnic table by himself for an hour.
Kenny Strand found him there. Kenny had a way of finding people. He was a big, cheerful, sunburned kid with a mustache he was very proud of and nobody else was, and he slid onto the bench across from Danny with a Peanut Buster Parfait and a look of real concern.
"Man, I heard," Kenny said. "Everybody heard. My cousin was in the line. She said he picked you up like a sack of feed."
"He didn't pick me up."
"She said your feet were off the ground."