twist
Who: Dodge
Where: His apartment
When: late
Almost everyone was home well before dark. The boys had bitched, just like Roach predicted, but they came because they trusted Dodge. He was lounging in the main room of the apartment, hanging comfortably from a younger boy's hammock while he watched them. They were sharing stories and finds, spending time together like they hadn't in a while. Without Patrick, every one of them worked harder, even the young ones, and every one of them was rarely here for bed this early.
Still, someone was missing. It was dark now and Roach was gone. Knowing that didn't alleviate the anger that Dodge had felt most of the day, but it did serve to increase the worry. Listening to the boys chatter he stared off into space, concerned for where his friend was, hoping that he wasn't hurt, wasn't picked up by the cops, wasn't dead. They'd had a day where checking in was necessary and yet...Roach hadn't checked in.
At the sound of his name Dodge broke out of his thoughts, turning towards a younger boy, just barely eleven. "Where's Roach?"
Hearing his own concerns echoed out loud, he did his best to keep his face passive as he glanced towards Mud. The other boy shook his head, indicating that no one had seen their lumbering friend in hours. Looking back to the young one, Patch they called him, Dodge took Corey's advice and put up a strong front. "He's running an errand for me. He'll be back in the morning. You're not worried are you? About Roach?"
The little boy flushed slightly, shaking his head enough that his brown curls moved with it. He ran off for a moment, giving Dodge time to climb out of the hammock. Things felt wrong without Roach here, and lies or not, Dodge wouldn't be able to cover up if something happened to him. Sure he'd been angry at his friend, confused at the fact that something in him had snapped, but that didn't mean he wasn't a stable part of their family. It certainly didn't mean that Dodge wanted him out there on his own. What was worse was that Dodge couldn't send someone out looking for Roach, nor could he go himself. He just had to wait. Running a hand over his face to hide the frown building there, Dodge let himself slip into his own thoughts again, trying to plan ahead when Patch tugged on his sleeve looking up at him with wide brown eyes.
Looking down Dodge saw what Patch wanted, and the little boy thrust the tattered book into his hand. Giving him the best smile he could manage Dodge took the book, a favorite of the whole family and flipped it open. Just the sight of it brought a small hush to the room, the boys knowing what it meant. How long had it been since someone had read them as a group? Probably well before Patrick had died. Dodge read the first few lines silently, relishing in the words and the way they fit together. This particular book he'd read a thousand times or more.
Briefly, Dodge glanced back up at the boys, noting the attention that covered their features, young and old. They were his, they always had been. No matter what horrible things had happened to them at Patrick's hands, they'd been Dodge's from the start and they were his now. So much of what Dodge had cared about lately was in a shambles, but to them, none of that matter. They didn't care that he'd yelled at Maddy and that she'd been gone when he woke up, that he was equally worried and angry at Roach. That both Evelyn and Jessie had scorned him because they wouldn't believe him that he hadn't intended to hurt either one of them.
Looking down at the book in his hand again he bit his lip hard. So much had gone so wrong and yet it all came back to this, to this moment, to the very text on these pages. It had shaped their lives, every one of them and from it Dodge himself was born, both in persona and in name. Settling down on one of the beds nearby with Patch crawling to sit next to him Dodge started the story again.
"Oliver Twist, Chapter First: Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter."