Trey sinks back into the chair. Cal can’t tell whether that’s because she’s OK with Lena or because her strength has given out. “There you go,” he says. “That’s better.” He goes to the cupboard and finds his first-aid kit.

“First thing is to get you cleaned up,” Lena says matter-of-factly, pulling off her jacket and throwing it over the back of a chair, “so I can see what’s what. Have you another cloth, Cal?”

“Under the sink,” Cal says. “I’ll be right outside.” He puts the first-aid kit in Lena’s hands and walks out the back door.

He sits down on the step, leans his elbows on his knees and breathes hard into his fingers for a while. He feels some kind of light-headed, or maybe sick, he can’t tell which. He needs to do something, but he can’t tell what that is either. “Fuck,” he says quietly, into his fingers. “Fuck.”

The wind shoves at him, trying to get around him and in the door. The treetops toss furiously and the garden has a deserted, tight-battened feel, like no creature that’s not desperate or crazy would be out in this. No sound comes from inside the house, or nothing Cal can hear through the wind.

After a while his head starts to come back together again, at least enough to fumble for something like a plan. He has better sense than to go near Sheila Reddy, but nothing on earth is going to keep him away from Donie.

He can’t do anything until he learns what Trey needs, though, and figures out how to get it for her. He considers slipping the kid a big dose of Benadryl and hauling her into the car when she gets drowsy. Even leaving aside the problematic aspects of showing up at a hospital with a drugged beat-up teenage girl, he’s uneasy about a course of action that, among its many other less predictable consequences, would likely land the kid in foster care. Maybe she’d be better off there; he can’t tell. Back when it was his job, he would have handed her over without a second thought and let the system do its thing.

Lena comes outside drying her hands on her jeans, closes the door behind her and sits down on the step next to Cal.

“She gonna make a run for it while you’re out here?” Cal asks.

“I doubt it. She’s exhausted. No reason why she would, anyway. I told her she doesn’t need a doctor.”

“Does she?”

Lena shrugs. “There’s no emergency, as far as I can tell. Her stomach’s not sore or swollen, and she’s got no bruises there—she says she curled up in a ball—so no reason to think she’s bleeding internally. I’d say she’s got a cracked rib, but there’s nothing a doctor could do about that. The hand seems like it’s bruised, not broken, but she’ll have to wait and see how it goes over the next couple of days. There’s plenty more cuts and bruises on her back and her legs, but they’re not serious.”

“Right,” Cal says. The image of Trey curled up feels like it’s branding him. “Yeah. Well. There you go. You think the lip needs stitches?”

“It could do with them, all right, so it doesn’t leave too bad of a scar. I told her that and she said no stitches, she doesn’t give a shite about scars. So I had her rinse it out with salt water, and I put on one of your Steri-Strips. Gave her one of your Nurofen for the pain. Better than nothing.”

“Thanks,” Cal says. “I appreciate this.”

Lena nods. “She oughta get seen, just in case. But she’ll live without.”

“Then she’ll have to live without. She’d just do herself more damage, fighting all the way.”

“If she gets worse during the night, she’ll need to go. Like it or not.”

“Yeah.”

Lena pulls her hands up into her sweater sleeves to keep them warm. She says, “Are you going to keep her here for the night?”

Even if Sheila notices Trey is gone before morning, she’s hardly likely to call the cops. “Yeah,” Cal says. “Could I ask you to sit with her?” It comes out abrupt, but he can’t wait to get moving. “I got somewhere I need to be. If she gets worse, call me and I’ll come back.”

“She was asking for you.”

“Tell her I’ll be back in the morning. And tell her don’t worry, I’m not going for a doctor.”

“She hardly knows me. It’s you she wants.”

Cal says, “I’m not gonna spend the night alone with a little girl.”

Lena tilts her head back against the door frame to inspect him up and down. She doesn’t look particularly impressed with what she sees. “Fair enough,” she says. “I’ll stay if you do.”

It’s a challenge, and it leaves Cal stymied. “What am I gonna do for her here?” he says.

“Same as I am. Give her more Nurofen, or a clean towel if her lip opens up. It’s not like she needs brain surgery. What are you going to do for her anywhere else?”

“I told you,” Cal says. He wishes he had called someone else, anyone else—not that there is anyone, unless he felt like getting on Facebook and messaging Caroline. “I got somewhere to be.”

“Not somewhere smart.”

“Maybe not. But still.”

“If you leave,” Lena informs him, “I’m leaving as well. This is your mess, not mine. I’m not sitting here all night waiting for your problems to come find me.”

She doesn’t look one bit nervous to Cal, but neither does she look like she plans on backing down. “These problems aren’t gonna come looking for anyone,” he says. “Not tonight, anyway.”

“Imagine how you’ll feel if you abandon a poor widow woman and an injured child to get bet up by hooligans.”

“I’ve got a gun I can leave you.”

“Congratulations. So do plenty of other people round here.”

More than anything else, she looks amused at Cal’s predicament. He runs his hands over his face. “Look,” he says. “I know it’s a lot to ask. You could take her to your place, if—”

“You think she’ll go?”

Cal rubs his face harder. “My mind’s not working too good right now,” he says. “Are you serious about leaving if I do?”

“I am, yeah. I don’t mind giving you a hand where you actually need it, but I’m not going to be left handling the real business while you chase off on some nonsense you’ve got into your head.” She grins at him. “I told you I was a cold bitch.”

Cal believes her. “OK,” he says, like he has a choice. “You win.” There’s no way in the world he can leave Trey in this house alone tonight. “I’ve only got one bed, and the kid’s getting that, but you can have the armchair.”