I can’t touch either of them. Tommy makes me sick to my stomach, and Hutch doesn’t want to be touched. I can tell; that damn burned out stare.
So bare, this crappy room. I’d put a blanket over Tommy, but he’s on top of his bedding, blind, talking to Hutch like Arty. Kid gives me the creeps. I know that Arty didn’t make him. He just put him on a leash, and let him off it now and then. Arty’s way worse than Tommy, but he doesn’t give me the creeps the way this broken boy does.
Hutch hates Arty. Hutch despises the street trash, or he pities them, but Arty he hates, and don’t think I haven’t 'speculated' about that. I’ll ask Hutch about that one day, choose my moment and put my hand on his shoulder, and not take no for an answer. But not now. I think if I tried now, that Hutch would take a swing at me, burned hand or not.
Wish I knew what happened before I got here to find them both sitting in the dark, with Tommy clutching that photograph frame. Abby and Hutch, they’re sweet together, but they’re not deep. I don’t think they’ll come back from this, but I don’t think that Abby’s hurt is the devil that Hutch is looking in the eyes right now.
Hutch stands. “Tommy,” he says, “I’ll go get you some medicine. Okay?” Tommy nods, like a little boy with his daddy.
Hutch walks out the door, and I follow him, shutting Tommy’s door, pretending I’m guarding him, and not my friend. “Torino’s on the street. You radio, and then you stay there.” Hutch gives me a look, and then something loosens in him and he nods.
It’s the best I can do. For now.