Toby was sitting on the curb behind the diner, holding a dish towel against a bleeding lip. His apron was ripped. A few feet away, his boss, a big man named Sal, had a lanky teenager pinned against the dumpster by the collar while another boy sprinted down the alley. Sal looked at me, then held up something that glinted under the security light.<\/p>\n
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It was a set of military dog tags on a beaded chain. I knew them before I saw the name. They had hung on my husband\u2019s neck for twelve years and in Toby\u2019s room since the funeral. \u201cYour son has been paying these punks forty dollars every Saturday for five months,\u201d Sal said. \u201cThey told him it was the only way he\u2019d ever get his father\u2019s tags back.\u201d<\/p>\n
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