by Bill Yarrow

Dad was dying. Meanwhile, the blood
from a puncture wound was drying on
Bogdan's palm. He was a tenth grade
messiah, famous for acts of attrition.
I had solicited his help with a bully
who had been threatening to beat me
up for wearing a leather vest to school.
He said he'd see what he could do.
The next day, my tormentor was not
in class. I went looking for my savior.
He was loitering by the cafeteria tray
return, eyeing the cruelty in passersby.
I went up to him and asked for another
favor. “You only get one.” I pondered that.