but it’ll do the trick.”
Shawn fingered the thick steel, which I was sure he could tell was not
cheap at all. I stood silently, paralyzed by dread but also by pity. In that
moment I hated him, and I wanted to scream it in his face. I imagined
the way he would crumple, crushed under the weight of my words and
his own self-loathing. Even then I understood the truth of it: that
Shawn hated himself far more than I ever could.
“You’re using the wrong screws,” he said. “You need long ones for
the wall and grabbers for the door. Otherwise, it’ll bust right off.”
We walked to the shop. Shawn shuffled around for a few minutes,
then emerged with a handful of steel screws. We walked back to the
house and he installed the lock, humming to himself and smiling,
flashing his baby teeth.