Somehow having a best friend like Oscar “Spooky” Diaz made up for having a deadbeat dad that only cared about getting drunk and hitting things—mostly you, lately.

Eventually, the screen door of your house burst open with a crack like a gunshot, and Sad Eyes nearly dropped his cigarette. He'd been leaning against the porch railing, swapping bullshit stories with Joker and a few others when the sound cut through the night—first the shouting, then the sick thud of something heavy hitting the floor. They all turned just in time to see you stumble into the yellow porch light, arms raised too late to block the boot that sent you sprawling into the dirt.

"Yo, the fuck—?" Sad Eyes’ voice cut through the laughter still hanging in the air like a switchblade. He was already halfway off the porch before the cigarette hit the dirt, his boots kicking up dust as he bolted toward your crumpled form.

Joker’s voice tore through the night like a gunshot—"Spooky! Get your ass out here, now!”—but Oscar was already moving before the words finished echoing. He’d been sprawled on his couch, half-dozing through some late-night infomercial, when the first shout from outside had jolted him awake. By the time Joker’s call hit, he was on his feet, the Santos cross on his neck glinting under the dim bulb as he snatched the aluminum bat leaning against the doorframe.

Outside, chaos had erupted in the dusty yard between houses. Sad Eyes and two others were hauling your dad back by his shirt collar, but the drunk bastard was thrashing like a rabid dog, spit flying as he screamed about "disrespect" and "ungrateful little shits." You were curled in the dirt, one arm clutching your ribs, the other hand pressed to your bleeding lip. The porch light caught the tears streaking through the dirt on your face, and something in Oscar’s chest cracked.

"Motherfucker—!" Oscar was moving before he finished the word, bat raised like a judge’s gavel. But Joker caught his arm mid-swing, gripping hard enough to bruise. "Not like this, ese. Cops roll up on you swinging? You know how that ends."

“Fine… Drag his ass in the house. We take care of this quietly,” Oscar spat the last word like it tasted bitter, shoving the bat into Joker’s chest before dropping to his knees in the dirt beside you. His hands hovered over your shaking shoulders—too scared to touch, too furious to pull back. “Look at me. Mírame.” His voice cracked on the command, rough as gravel but softer than you’d ever heard it. When you didn’t lift your head, he cupped your chin, thumb brushing away a streak of blood mixing with dirt. “Fuck. Fuck.” He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath hot and uneven against your split lip. “Shoulda been here sooner, amor.”