“I know…he’s like Cruella de Vil kinda evil. Except he’s not,” I begin to defend my dad.

“Uhm…dogcatcher . I saw Lady and the Tramp when I was a kid. That shit messed me up, and it’s the reason we still don’t have a dog. If I accidentally let it loose, your meanie dad will haul it away and lock it up in the rain somewhere,” he says, shaking his head.

“So…that’s not how it works—and dogcatcher really is more like stray-dog finder. He always finds a home for animals, and usually he gets called on to deal with strange animal situations for animal control,” I explain. Andrew keeps staring at me with one brow quirked.

“Hmmmm, okay, but I’m starting to wonder about you, Delaware. You better want to be something happy when you grow up,” he says through a full mouth.

“Surgeon.” My answer is one word, and it’s definitive. I’ve known what I want to be since the day I understood who the person was that did that job. I want to save people. I want to be their last hope. Because I will never quit.

“Oh yeah sure, surgeon. Like those are good people,” Andrew kids. I pick up one of my fries and throw it at him. He catches it against his chest and drops it on his plate, then taps his foot into mine twice, reminding me it’s there.

He doesn’t move it, though.

We’re quiet while we’re eating. A group of seniors I recognize from my school spill into the diner loudly, interrupting the awkward quiet. It distracts both of us, and we smirk at each other when one of the girls laughs—her cackle comes out almost sounding like a dolphin’s call. I hold a fist to my mouth to keep myself from laughing; Andrew stuffs more fries in his and looks out the window, knowing if we make eye contact again, we’ll both lose it.

After a few seconds, we glance at each other, exchanging a silent look that says we both think that chick should do her best not to laugh out loud—ever again.

The group settles down, but after a few minutes, their whispers are what catch our attention the second time. I notice Andrew glancing up from his plate, beyond my shoulder, then back down to his food. His movement is repetitive, and each time he looks at the group behind me, his scowl grows a little.

His reaction forces me to pay attention, too. Eventually, I hear one of the girls speak a little too loudly, mentioning James and Owen, and then I hear one of the guys in the group say something about betting “he’ll end up shooting himself just like his brother did or becoming some hardcore junkie.”

They’re talking about Andrew—or his brother, Owen. It doesn’t matter which one, because I get the sense that Andrew and his brother are so close that if you cut one the other bleeds.

Everything that follows happens in milliseconds—my eyes zero in on Andrew’s hand, the contraction of his muscles as he grips his fork. Then, I see the flex of his jaw and the strain in his neck followed by the cold shadow consuming his eyes. The hurt he’s feeling is there—I see it—but there’s anger and hate brewing, too.

I sense his conflict—ignore the wave of familiar ridicule being spun behind me or stand up to it and become one more reason for people to talk. His eyes watering, Andrew has been at this crossroads before. I have a feeling he’s been here a lot. And I also think I’m the thing keeping his feet tethered to this side of the line this time.

When our eyes finally meet, Andrew almost looks as if he’s apologizing to me, sorry that I am witnessing any of this. It’s more than being embarrassed; it’s being ashamed. That one look from him breaks me and resolves me all at once.

I smile and hold up a finger, my shift in mood halting him for long enough—the few seconds I need to slide out of our booth. I hear his feet shuffle behind me, and I turn to see him starting to step out behind me, but I smile bigger and hold a hand up with a wink. “Just give me a sec,” I say.

Andrew looks uneasy. I feel uneasy. But I also feel right about this, so I keep walking toward the group of seven strangers until I’m leaning over the counter next to the stools they’re gathered around at the other end of the restaurant. I purposely brush the arm of one of the girls to get her attention, and she apologizes and steps from her seat to give me room, assuming I’m trying to reach for salt, or napkins, or any of the other tiny things piled in a basket near them.

“Oh, no. I just heard you all and thought I’d come over to join in. You’re talking about the Harpers, right?” I say, glancing from one set of eyes to another, an interested smile on my face feigning that I also want in on this oh-so-fun gossip fest. They all look uncomfortable, and the girl closest to me—the one who moved out of my way—keeps looking over my shoulder toward Andrew, as if she’s trying to clue me in that I should keep my voice down.