Instead, I wait and try not to move.

His aftershave is overpowering and familiar. The smell crawls into my eyes, irritating them and making them water. It’s the kind my father wore.

The hand moves again, and I freeze. Maybe too much. He stops again, and I see that he’s watching my eyes.

“You’re about to cry, aren’t you?” he says, smelling like a dead man. I can tell he wants me to say yes; he wants me to be a scared little kid—but I’m not going to give that burro the satisfaction.

My eyes are watery, but I don’t cry.

I say, “No.”

He looks me over for a second, feeling superior. A big man picking on a kid. I wait for him to say those words I can see him thinking smugly, “Yes, you are.” But I don’t cry, and he doesn’t say anything.

He slaps my throat and smears the blood a little, but some remains. It’s already starting to turn hard. I imagine my blood sticking up for itself. I imagine it telling the man with the blade that he can’t push it around, and I’m grinning to myself as the blade scrapes my flesh.

Suddenly, I’m not thinking about where I am. Instead, I’m thinking about that aftershave and my father, a poor guy who never caught a break in his life. Not a perfect man, not a perfect dad, but a good man.

Yeah, my dad was a good man.
            In the reflection, I see his blood.

“All right,” the big man says. “That’s it. I’m done with you.”

Finished, my brother puts the razor in my hand; and in the reflection, I can see the other man’s hand holding the blade.