[ The uneasy surprise on Jimmy's face isn't feigned—it's adjusted in service of the moment, but really, why is this kid talking about his dead mom? Why was he bragging about his buddy being stabbed, as if it's some accomplishment?
He tells his phone he'll call it back, pretends to jab a button, and slips it in his pocket. Holds his ground, though he feels—imagines he feels—Kim's eyes on him. He definitely feels the strain beneath her words. And maybe the kid'll keep coming, maybe he'll crash into him or punch him in the solar plexus or try to kick him in the goddamn head. It doesn't seem unlikely. ] Listen—Mikey? Mikey. [ Don't make the name sound childish. Don't dismiss him. Don't say "nice jacket."
His tone skews thoughtful, his gaze sharpening. ] What is this?
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He tells his phone he'll call it back, pretends to jab a button, and slips it in his pocket. Holds his ground, though he feels—imagines he feels—Kim's eyes on him. He definitely feels the strain beneath her words. And maybe the kid'll keep coming, maybe he'll crash into him or punch him in the solar plexus or try to kick him in the goddamn head. It doesn't seem unlikely. ] Listen—Mikey? Mikey. [ Don't make the name sound childish. Don't dismiss him. Don't say "nice jacket."
His tone skews thoughtful, his gaze sharpening. ] What is this?