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   The kid stands close. “You have blue eyes.”
  “I do,” says I, and I step away from the kid though he holds on. “What the fuck?” I turn on whoever has grabbed my flung out other arm.
   Another hand comes in over my shoulder and past my head. “Ba!” says the boy, pretty much directly into my ear, but that’ll be the shirtless old guy hanging onto me he’s yelling too.
   This is where I’d like to run but where I have to settle for yanking my own limbs against the very unexpected tenacity of this old man. The fuck is he hanging onto me for?
  “The fuck are you hanging onto me for!”
   I direct this at both of them, wriggling and struggling as I am against them both.
  “Ba!” says the kid again, and I could slap him. That particularly ineffectual cry of the child against the parent that you hear over and over here is surely one of the more enervating aspects of the environment.
   The old man grabs my shirt. The slavering, snapping, black-eyed father lunges at I don’t know what – at me or at the floor – but he rides down the front of me and like my collar is my yoke, I go down with him. The kid comes down with us too, but in some kind of stupid sympathy because nothing was hauling him down, except maybe I clamped my free arm to my side when I went down.
   I’m a bit slow in such situations, not that I get into them, and I expect us to all to shortly be dusting the incredible amount of dirt down here off our sides, and that I’ll have some room to more properly comport myself again.
   It’s a short hop therefore from lying next to me for the father to have a hand pressing my skull, the other at my collar, and his teeth around the tendons of my neck.
  “Goddamn,” says I, and I put my hands on my hips.

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