Buddy sits in a booth with a view of the door and he drinks the terrible coffee and hopes his bruises aren't showing yet. Weren't, last time he was in the bathroom. Been in the bathroom a lot tonight. Five or six cups of coffee on an empty stomach will do that. And give you a hell of a sour feeling.

Buddy is hungry but he doesn't have any money for food. He'd only been able to grab the buck-fifty for the coffee because Dad had left the car unlocked. And had not chased him all the way down the driveway.

Buddy is waiting for Dad. He is here at Sandy's, waiting for Dad, on purpose. He isn't running away. He could have taken his pick of terrible coffee shops to sit in all night. It didn't have to be the one Dad goes to every morning. He wants Dad to find him. Maybe Dad will buy him some breakfast after -- whatever.

Still, when the bells over the door start to chime, Buddy is under the table. His hands shake and he squeezes them together. There is still blood under his fingernails.

"Sandy!" Dad's voice booms. "Seen my boy?"

Buddy feels the pause before she speaks. Feels her eyes flick towards his booth, almost as clear as seeing it. "Yeah, Tom. He's been here all night. Everything ok?"

Dad doesn't answer. The soles of his boots make disgusting lip-smack noises on the sticky floor. Sandy should mop more.

Dad's boots stop in front of the booth. His shadow doesn't loom. The window is on the wrong side. Buddy is disappointed, down in that watching part of himself. The part that has trouble remembering he isn't in a movie. It would look better with a looming shadow. It would feel right.

"Buddy?" Dad says. "Get up, son. Please. I'm sorry. I just want to talk."

Right. Buddy believes that like he believes in Santa.

He had wanted Dad to find him. To talk. He had to remind himself of that. "You keep your hands to yourself," he says.

The booth creaks under Dad's weight. He sighs. "I'm sorry, son. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."

"You keep them to yourself," Buddy repeats.

"I will keep my hands to myself." Dad sounds like a kid reciting the pledge.

Buddy still doesn't believe it. But he isn't going to carry on a conversation from under a table. Anyway, those boots are right in his face. Be safer up top.

Buddy unrolls himself back up into his side of the booth. He picks up his coffee cup and holds it like a shield.

Dad is holding something, too. Red's collar. He turns it, around and around, in his hands. Looking at the collar, not at Buddy. Finally, he throws it onto the table. It lands with a clatter, like a bundle of keys, all of Red's tags banging against each other and the scarred linoleum of the table.

"Just tell me one thing." Dad does not look up. "Why?"

Buddy can't answer that. He doesn't know. He'd tried to explain that to Dad last night, before the hitting started. "Do the bruises show? On my face?" he says instead.

Dad reels like Buddy has hit him. Which Buddy has never done. Dad looks up at the ceiling. He scratches his beard where it tumbles down his neck. His other hand, on the table, closes and opens, opens and closes.

Dad looks down. Looks Buddy in the eye. "A little," he says. He reaches up and Buddy flinches, and Dad drops his hand again. "Sorry."

"Keep them to yourself!" Buddy does not mean to screech. It just comes out that way. His hands are shaking, bad, and cold coffee is splashing out everywhere.

"Son. You need help. Your mother and I -- "

"You need help! You need help!" Buddy points at his face. He is still screeching. He can see Sandy behind the counter, staring at them. Like they are on TV. Buddy doesn't like it.

"Buddy -- " Dad trails off, looks out the window. "Son. We're scared. I'm scared. I was scared last night. And angry. I didn't mean -- I'm sorry that I hurt you."

It is not as satisfying, hearing that, as Buddy had imagined it would be. Everything still feels off, out of kilter. Like the world is the wrong color, or things are the wrong size.

"Are you sorry?" Dad says.

"Sorry for what?"

Dad closes his eyes. Is he crying? He is. The fat fuck is crying. Buddy laughs. "You're a grown man!" he says.

Dad opens his teary eyes. "I remember, when you were two or three, Mom and I thought you must be the smartest little boy in the world. We used to show you off to strangers, you know? Let you walk around here, or the pizza place, just talking to people. Nobody could believe the things you could say, the things you knew."

"So what?" Buddy has been so tired of these remember-when-you-were-little stories for so long. So long.

Dad is getting up.

"Where are you going?" Buddy asks, kind of screeching again.

Dad raps his knuckles on the back of the next booth. He doesn't turn around. He has left Red's collar on the table. "I love you, Buddy," he says. Sounds like he's crying again. "I love you."

He leaves.

Buddy is angry. He grabs Red's collar and throws it on the ground, then gets up to run after Dad.

He's not two steps out the door when somebody grabs him. Buddy kicks and hits and yells and scratches but it's no use. He's cuffed. They are putting him in the back of a car. A police car. He snarls, and kicks and kicks at the grate, until he notices Dad.

Dad, sitting on the bench outside of Sandy's, with his hand over his eyes. His belly is shaking, like he's still crying.

Fat fuck. God.