Chapter Text
Robin stared at her phone screen, reading the text for a third time. The words were blurring, from tiredness, not tears. She was a Dixon, and Dixons don’t cry over silly things like a few days without supper.
“Theres no food in the house. Mama says daddy didnt pay child support again so make dowith school lunch. I tried but Im still hungry.”
Robin studied the text carefully. It was well after eleven, and she wasn’t even sure he would answer. After a minute, she erased the ‘Im still hungry’ part. That was whining, and she was too big to whine.
Finally, she hit send before she lost the nerve to send it at all. Mama had promised to go shopping over the weekend, but instead had gone out with her new boyfriend, Tommy Pearce. And she knew Daddy had paid his child support. It came from the Army, every month like clockwork, so he couldn’t forget.
Daddy told her so last year when he had taken her to Fort Benning to get her military ID.
"See, Baby girl, I was in the Army when I was real young. Went over to Iraq back in '91, first war there. Truck I was in hit a land mine. I was laid up in the hospital fer a few months,” he shrugged, like hitting a roadside bomb was something everyone went through. "Now they gotta pay me every month 'cause of it. Disability, they call it. And I make damn sure every penny of that child support comes out automatic like. That way, yer always taken care of. I can’t forget or spend it on other shit by mistake. It's yers before anything else. Goes straight to Sadie on the first of every month.”
He'd looked at her so seriously then, his blue eyes—the same blue as hers—intent on her face. "So if yer Mama ever tells you I didn't pay, she's lyin’. Or she spent it on somethin’ else. Ya’ understand what I'm telling ya’?"
She nodded, trying to be as serious as he was.
She hadn’t understood it then. Money wasn’t something she really thought about then. She had food, she had clothes, she had an extra dollar to get a pack of candy from the school canteen on Friday, and she never really thought about where it came from. Now she understood. The Army sent the money. Mama got it, but Robin was still hungry.
Her stomach twisted, a hollow ache that had become so familiar over the past four days that she almost didn't notice it anymore. Almost. Robin tried to be quiet about it, tried to make the food last, but supper last night had been fruit loops in water. Not even the good Fruit Loops, but the off-brand. And there was no supper tonight. She had one more packet of Poptarts for the morning, then it was just some ketchup packets from McDonald’s left.
She wasn't begging. Dixons don’t beg. She was just... telling Uncle Daryl. Like Daddy had said, she should if she ever needed anything.
Less than a minute later, as if he’d been holding the phone, waiting for her to message, came the reply.
“K. I’ll take care of it.”
Robin let out a sigh of relief. Then she turned off her phone, hiding it in the bottom drawer of her nightstand, just like Daddy said to do. He’d helped her cut a hole in the back, where it wouldn’t be seen, to run the charging cord. Keep it charged. Keep it hidden, keep it turned off. “Yer Mama and her new man don’t need to know nothin’ ‘bout this,” he’d said. “This is for you, for emergencies. See? That’s my number, and that’s Daryl’s. Ya need anything, ya call one of us. Keep it charged and keep it hidden.” She turned it off so someone wouldn’t call and reveal her hiding place.
“Yer a Dixon, and Dixons take care of their own.” Daddy had said.
Uncle Daryl was a Dixon, too, and he would take care of everything.
Robin didn’t know that eight-year-olds weren’t supposed to stay home by themselves in the afternoons. No one had ever told her that.
Uncle Daryl had told her how he’d gotten lost in the woods for days once when he was twelve.
Daddy had told her how he used to keep Uncle Daryl by himself at night when he was just ten and Uncle Daryl was a baby. If they could do that, then she could stay by herself for a few hours in the afternoons.
Mama worked at the Georgia Oaks retirement home and didn’t get home until six or sometimes, seven at night, and Robbie was certainly old enough to let herself in the house, make a snack, and watch television until Mama got home. Besides, after-school programs cost money and would charge extra when Mama didn’t get out of work on time.
It wasn’t hard, and she knew the rules. Lock the door, stay inside, no cooking with fire, but the microwave, coffee maker, and toaster were okay. And most importantly, don’t answer the door for anyone. Not even Granny.
Especially not Granny, who often smelled like wine and asked, “Does Merle know ya’got some man livin’ up in his house, not payin’ fer nothin’ an’ bossin’ Bird around like he owns the place?”
Or threatened to, “Call her Daddy to come fix this mess.”
Mama said there wasn’t a mess, and Granny was just stirring the pot because Mama wouldn’t let her live there.
The most important rule was simple, though. If anything happens, run to Uncle Daryl’s house. Daddy and Uncle Daryl had practically drilled that into her head. Two blocks away. Tall Pines trailer park. The third trailer on the right side, with green skirting and Uncle Daryl’s bike in the yard.
“If yer ever in trouble, Pippy, ya’ run straight to me, ya’ got it?” Uncle Daryl had said, crouching down to her height.
“Yes, sir,” she’d whispered because he seemed so serious, like that was the most important thing in the world to him.
She didn’t know what they were so worried about, though.
The lock clicked, and she pushed inside. No need to call out, she knew Mama was working until six, then Tommy was coming over to take them out to dinner. She put her bookbag in the hall closet because Tommy didn’t like it when she left it out. He said it cluttered things up.
There wasn’t much to make a snack with today, but she had saved one of her Poptarts from breakfast and had pocketed her juice pouch from her school lunch. She knew Mrs. Chen, the lunch monitor, had seen her do it. You weren’t supposed to take food out of the cafeteria, but she hadn’t said anything, so Robin had pretended not to notice the way Mrs. Chen watched her. With those sad eyes, and lips sealed tight against words she couldn’t bring herself to say.
The juice pouch was strawberry-kiwi, which was her favorite. She thought about putting it up for dinner, as she didn’t have much hope that going out to dinner would include her. It rarely did, and it would be late before they brought her back something. Something cold and picked over. But that was okay. Tomorrow was Thursday, then the next day was Friday, and Uncle Daryl always took her to McDonald’s on Friday. She could make it until then.
She rounded the corner into the kitchen and froze.
Plastic grocery bags covered the counter, all full of her favorite foods. A case of Dr Pepper sat on the floor by the refrigerator. Some bottles of water were on the table. She gasped, a smile spreading across her face.
Uncle Daryl, she thought.
Seeing all the food, she knew he must have gone shopping instead of just giving her mom some cash. He must have brought everything over while she was in school. Using the key he still had from when Daddy lived with them, too.
She quickly began unpacking everything, putting it away. Bread, the good kind in the yellow bag. Fruit snacks with princesses on them, peanut butter, jelly, granola bars, the good ones with chocolate chips, Poptarts, apples, a bunch of bananas, the little bags of chips that she could take to school, and cereal. Real Fruit Loops. Oreos and Chips Ahoy.
She couldn’t believe it. She’d just thought he’d give them twenty dollars or so, just enough to get by until Mama got paid.
She opened the fridge to put the bananas away, because she liked them better cold, and saw that he’d stocked it too. Eggs, bacon, a whole gallon of milk, cheese, baloney, and the good ham from the deli.
But she couldn't leave the bags out. They were from the store near the garage where Uncle Daryl worked. Not the Bag and Save Mama usually shopped at. Tommy would be here tonight, and if he saw them, he'd know Uncle Daryl had been in the house. He'd know about the key. He'd make Mama take it back, change the locks, cut off her last lifeline to Daddy's family.
To Tommy, it didn’t matter that this was Daddy’s house, left to him and Uncle Daryl by some grandmother they barely knew. Tommy treated it like it was his house, and he was doing Robin a favor by letting her live there. He made up all these rules about what she could and couldn’t do and what she could and couldn’t have. He’d even taken the bow and arrows that Uncle Daryl had given her for her birthday and hid them in Mama’s room.
He said they were dangerous and she’d shoot herself or something with it. Like Daddy and Uncle Daryl hadn’t been teaching safety since she was a little kid. Like she didn’t know that weapons were tools and not toys, and were only dangerous if you were stupid with them.
In one last act of rebellion, Robbie hid the case of Dr. Pepper under her bed. Uncle Daryl knew that was her favorite and he’d bought them for her, but if Tommy found them, he’d take them and drink them all himself, telling her little girls shouldn’t have sodas. He would say they’ll make her fat, and the sugar would rot her teeth.
According to him, little girls shouldn't have soda. Little girls shouldn't have bows and arrows. Little girls shouldn't have cell phones. Little girls shouldn’t be allowed to ride motorcycles or go fishing, or have McDonald’s.
According to Tommy, little girls shouldn't be allowed to have anything fun.
Or maybe he thought just Robbie shouldn't be allowed anything, at least not anything to do with Daddy or Uncle Daryl. He said that the Dixons were all white trash and that Daddy was a criminal and Uncle Daryl was a bad influence with his motorcycle and tattoos, and his ‘lack of a real job.’
Tommy said they should all move to Savannah, where Daddy and Uncle Daryl couldn’t see her as much and break that white trash cycle before Robin was old enough to act like them.
At that moment, though, she didn't care what Tommy had to say. Uncle Daryl had brought her food, so she would have something to eat tonight at least.
She took one of the Dr. Peppers and poured it into a glass over ice, watching as the bubbles fizzed and rose to the top. It tasted wonderful. She made a sandwich with two slices of ham, adding mustard and pickles the way Uncle Daryl would if she were at his house. Just the way they liked them.
She ate her sandwich with two bags of chips, barbecue, and vinegar and salt. Her stomach now full for the first time in four days, she sat there for a few minutes, enjoying the contented feeling in her belly before cleaning up her mess.
Then she got to work. She knew that all the food would be gone in no time again, and she really didn’t want to have to ask Uncle Daryl to help her again. It still felt too much like begging.
She took the granola bars, the fruit snacks, and both packs of cookies, hiding them in her old backpack, with a few bottles of water. She could drink from the tap, but sometimes the water got shut off, and bottled water was good to have then. She then hid the backpack in her closet, behind her winter coat, where no one would check.
She was going to let Tommy eat everything Uncle Daryl got for her.
Finally done, she retrieved her phone from the drawer and texted him.
"Thank you”
"Next time, don't wait so damn long." Came the reply.
She knew he wasn’t mad. Just concerned.
"I won't. Love you."
"Sure thing, Pippy. See you Friday."
Robin smiled. That was good enough. She turned the phone off, hiding it in the bottom drawer, and made sure the charging cord was plugged in, just like Daddy had taught her.
She could imagine that Uncle Daryl had read that last text, his cheeks turning red the way they did when she’d say that on Friday nights when he dropped her off after going to eat. He’d pretend to be super busy, taking her helmet off and stowing it away. Then he’d ruffle her hair and tell her to ‘Run on inside.”
Uncle Daryl never said “I love you.” He wasn’t that type.
But he was the type to say ‘see you Friday’ and then actually show up.
Despite being alone in his own trailer, Daryl felt his cheeks heat up as he read Bird’s last text.
“Love you.”
Simple words, but he couldn’t bring himself to say them, or even write them, back. It felt like swallowing glass to admit that, even to his Pippy. Especially to Pippy, because he knew she really meant it, and that just made it worse.
No one had ever said them freely to him, not until her. Eight years old and completely unaware of how vulnerable that made you. She didn’t know how those words made you vulnerable, how they made you a target.
Part of him hoped she’d never find out, that she’d always say it as freely as she did now.
His and Merle’s mama had been too far gone in the bottle before Daryl could even remember. Anything he could remember her saying to him or Merle wasn’t what you’d want to repeat to a kid like Pippy. They weren’t words that belonged near kids at all. Mostly, she’d just look through him until he left again.
Even the thought of Will Dixon uttering those words made Daryl want to laugh if it wasn’t so damn pathetic. Will didn’t say much of anything except ‘Git over here, Boy’, which was followed by his belt or fist hitting whatever part of Daryl or Merle he could reach. Will had beaten any ‘love’ out of both him and Merle before they were old enough to even know what that word meant. Before they were old enough to understand family wasn’t supposed to be like that.
Love was weakness. Love was a weapon. Love hurt worse than any belt or fist ever could.
Merle had said it exactly once. Just once in Daryl's whole life.
It was right before he shipped out to Iraq, and the only time Daryl could remember Merle being more scared of dying than he was of their father. That was saying something.
They had been standing in the Atlanta airport, all fluorescent lighting and chemical cleaner smells. It felt wrong to Daryl, like the place wasn’t even real. Merle's duffel bag sat heavy on his shoulder, his knuckles white where he gripped the strap. He was waiting for the plane that would take him to some Army base in California that Daryl couldn't remember the name of now, and then on to Iraq. To the desert. To war.
Merle had been trying to look tough, standing there in his fatigues, with his chin held high and his shoulders back, every inch a soldier. But Daryl saw how he kept shifting from foot to foot, his eyes drifting to the departure boards. How the carefully cultivated ‘fuck off’ look on his face, the one that had kept him and Daryl alive so far, kept slipping into something softer and younger.
All of twenty-two years old, trying to pretend he wasn't scared of dying. And hell, knowing Merle, maybe he wasn't scared of that. Maybe he was more afraid of what he was leaving behind. Afraid that Daryl wouldn't be there when he got back, that their old man would finally go too far, that he’d lose the only person he had.
Merle had given Daryl a playful shove, and the words had come out rough, like he was forcing them past barbed wire. "I love ya’, Baby Brother."
Daryl had frozen. His whole body had gone stiff, not knowing what to do with that, where to put it. Those words didn’t belong in their vocabulary.
But Merle kept talking, pretending not to notice how Daryl’s cheeks had turned red, how he was staring at a hole in his tennis shoes as if he could find the right words there. “If I kick off over there, don't let Dad fuck with my bike. Sell it and buy yerself one you like. Something fast. If I ain't comine back, get the hell outta dodge as soon as ya’ can, ya’ hear me?"
Daryl’s face heated up then, just like it was now. And he’d covered the words he couldn’t force out with Dixon bravado, “Don’t be a pussy. Ya’ know Dad’s gonna fuck with your bike whether you kick off or not. Probably already has a buyer lined up.”
Though even at just twelve, Daryl knew there was no way in Hell he’d let the old man sell Merle’s bike while Merle was a way at war, just to try to send Daryl back enough money to eat on each month since Will drank away every penny he got. He was already planning on hiding it at their granny’s house and calculating which beatings to take, and which to run from, that would come his way for not telling Will where to find it. No way was Merle coming home to find his prized possession gone in one of Will’s drunken rages.
“Probably,” Merle had smirked at that, like he found it funny, or even sad, and some of the fear left his eyes. He slung one arm around Daryl’s shoulders, giving him kind of half a hug, then pressed a twenty into Daryl’s hand. “Get yerself something to eat. And try to stay outta Dad’s way until I get back. Remember our campsite is still set up in the woods if ya’ need it.”
Then he'd walked off toward the boarding ramp, his duffel bouncing against his back with each step. Right before he'd disappeared into the crowd, he'd turned back, caught Daryl's eye, and flipped him the bird: his standard goodbye, his version of affection, his only way of saying all the things they were never taught how to say.
Daryl had grinned, returning the one-fingered salute, but his throat was tight with the words he hadn’t been able to say. I love you too. Don’t die. Don’t leave me alone with him. Just don’t die.
He stood there, long after Merle was gone, after the plane had taxied, the money burning a hole in his pocket as he stood there as if waiting for his brother to come back. As if he could stand there for the year that Merle would be gone.
Finally, his growling stomach had reminded him of Merle’s instructions to get something to eat. There were a ton of restaurants in the airport, ranging from pretzel stands to sit-down ones with menu cards and linen tablecloths. He wanted to try everything he could until the twenty was gone, and he was sure that’s what Merle had intended. For him to have something good for once. But it was still two months until squirrel season opened, and he needed to be smart with the money.
So he’d passed the bakery with sweets that made his mouth water: chocolate chip cookies bigger than his hand, cinnamon rolls dripping with icing, and even slices of birthday cake. Same for the hamburger joint, with its sizzling grill, and the steakhouse that advertised a ribeye dinner for $12.99, where the smell alone had nearly broken his resolve.
He’d ended up at Taco Bell, where he got three soft tacos and a small Coke, spending only $2.50 of the precious twenty. The tacos were good, warm, and filling, and more food than he’d had at one time all month. But they weren't what Merle had meant when he'd said to get something to eat. Merle had meant treat yourself, and Daryl had chosen survive instead.
The rest would go to ramen noodles, canned spaghetti, and Vienna sausages. Not good stuff, but kept him alive until he could take to the woods with his bow or Merle’s .22. Until he could keep himself alive the way he’d been taught.
Daryl knew what it was to be hungry. Not the shallow, superficial kind that everyone got when they missed lunch or supper was late, but the bone-deep, gnawing, aching hunger that came with days of little food. The kind that made you weak and desperate enough to do things you’d never otherwise consider.
Merle knew it, too. Probably better than Daryl himself. He’d been older when their mother had checked out. Had more practice at stretching nothing into something, had passed his own portion to Daryl when he just couldn’t make it stretch anymore. He’d sworn his own kid would never know that feeling.
So why the hell was Pippy rationing Poptarts and ketchup packets?
Daryl didn’t know, but he was going to find out.
“Okay, Kid. See you Friday.” He replied, because that’s what he could say. That’s what he could do. He could show up. He could make sure she knew someone was listening, that someone cared.
He could also find Merle and find out what the hell had happened, because something was wrong. This wasn’t just having to stretch a day or two until payday. There had been nothing in that house.
He knew Merle had his child support set up to come out of his Army disability. Five hundred dollars a month, even though the judgment was for just four twenty-five a month. Merle had told him several times. It was a point of pride. Merle didn’t trust himself to be a present father, too afraid of being like Will, but he could make damn sure she ate and had a roof over her head.
But mistakes did happen, right? Delays, computer errors, lost checks, or something to explain why Robin had been texting him at eleven last night for help. Sadie had always been good about managing what Merle sent her, and she didn’t have to pay any rent; the house had been left to Merle and Daryl by some grandmother on their mama's side who'd felt guilty for never stepping in when they were kids. Maybe something broke in the house and needed to be fixed. A new hot water heater could easily eat up five hundred dollars.
But then, why didn’t Sadie call him or Merle to fix it? They always had before. Hell, Daryl had just put new brakes and shocks on Sadie’s piece of shit Toyota a month ago. It wasn’t like she was afraid to ask. Something wasn’t adding up.
He pulled his phone back out, scrolling to Merle's number, and texted: "You talk to Sadie lately?"
He tossed his phone back on the coffee table and lay back on his couch, staring at the stained ceiling. It’d be a while before Merle texted back. It always was. His brother kept odd hours, working odd jobs or whatever filled his time.
The ten o'clock news was on when his phone finally buzzed, some story playing about a cop being shot in one of the Atlanta suburbs. Daryl grabbed the phone, looking at Merle's response.
"Fuck no.”
A beat then:
“Why”
Merle texted like he talked. Disjointed and fast, with no patience for punctuation or complete thoughts.
“Bird sent me a text last night saying they were out of food, and Sadie said you didn’t pay your child support.”
The reply came faster this time. Daryl could practically see the anger rising from it.
“That lying bitch you know it comes straight out of my check before I see it”
“Maybe there was a payment error?” Daryl typed back, trying to give Sadie the benefit of the doubt.
“Maybe she used the money for that piece of shit she has laid up in my house and she’s telling my kid I ain’t taking care of her dammit”
Damn. The new boyfriend. Daryl had forgotten. Robin had mentioned something about him last week when they were at McDonald's. Daryl hadn’t liked the way her voice went quiet, and she started pushing her food around when talking about him. He’d reminded her that she could always come to his house and left it at that for the time. He hadn’t thought Sadie would be putting a man over her kid, though.
“You need to go by and see Bird tomorrow.” He typed. “I got her some groceries today, but you need to make sure nothing else is going on.”
“Cant”
One word, no punctuation. Merle was never studious about such things, but this felt different. It felt final.
“Why the hell not?” Daryl typed back, though he already had a sinking feeling he knew.
“Im fucked up cant see her like this.”
So there it was. Merle wasn’t avoiding Robin because he didn’t care. He was high, or drunk, or both. And had probably been so since right after Daryl had last seen him, back in July at Robin’s birthday party. Daryl had noticed he seemed off then, but pushing Merle to talk never went well.
Merle wouldn’t let Robin see him like that. For all his faults, and God knew Merle had enough faults to fill an ocean, he wouldn’t let Robin see him wasted. Wouldn’t let her witness him self-destructing the way they’d watched their parents do. It should have made Daryl proud to see Merle at least trying to make Robin’s life a little better than theirs had been, but tonight, it just made him tired.
Sadie was lying. Merle was using. And in the meantime, Robin was starving, and some asshole was using her money while letting her believe her family didn’t care enough to take care of her.
Robin was trying so hard to be tough, but damn, she was just a little girl. At least when he and Merle were young, they could take to the woods to feed themselves, living in the hills of north Georgia, where game was plenty if you knew how to get it. What was Robin supposed to do, living in Atlanta, when even the park near their house was made of concrete with no wildlife in sight?
“Well, get unfucked. We have shit to do.”
He threw his phone on the table again. He lay down and closed his eyes. Tomorrow he’d find Merle, force him to get clean, fight that fight, but tonight? Tonight he was going to sleep.