Blind and Toothless

“That’s jive.”

Jackson’s words are quiet, but Harold can hear everything that he’s not saying.

An eye for an eye. He heard the words first as a young boy who wanted to be out running and playing, not trying to resist the urge to squirm in the pew, his grandmother’s hand, warm and steady on the back of his neck.

“You do what’s right Harold. Every time. Even when you’re the only one who will.” Her words echo in his head, strong, wise and warm, but he doesn’t say them to Jackson. They would taste too bitter on his tongue.