Dallas hates little kids.

That's why he cannot fathom why you're sticking to him like a fly to a glue trap. He's shoved you off more times than he can count, but you always come back, and he's assuming that your parents are neglectful or some shit like that.

Dally hasn't asked how old you are, because, frankly, he doesn't care, but he's pretty sure you're anywhere from seven to ten years old. Your front two teeth are missing, and since they haven't grown in within the time he's known you, he's assuming that they grew in, as adult teeth, and then got knocked out, so he figures you have to be older than six but there's no way you're twelve or older. Hell, why does that worry him?

“Why don't ya go home,” he says gruffly, shuffling your hand off his elbow. God dammit, you're annoying. “Lord knows I don't want you over here.”