Joseph sat on the curb, with the blanket his father had given him when he finally showed up. But surprisingly—he wasn't angry. He was mostly concerned, trying his best to understand why his son would be fist fighting his best friend in the middle of the street—passed curfew.

Bobby had left a little over thirty-minutes ago, and it was evident that his father was as angry as can be.

"I'm gonna need you to tell me what's going on, Joe," Pete finally says, his keys settled into his lap, and at least a foot of space in between he and Joseph. "Because I've got say—I don't favor getting a call from Johnny Moor, that you're first fighting Bobby Stinger, when you're supposed to be at home—with your mother and sister's."

Joseph looks down at his hands clenching in his lap, and let's out a defeated puff of air. "He isn't my friend, pop. He's not a good guy. Can you just trust me on that? Please?"

Pete takes a moment, biting at his bottom lip in deep thought. "I guess so, but you better think of a better explanation for your mother. You know how she gets in situations like these."

Joseph nods, finally looking his father in the eye. "Yeah, I know."

On the drive home, faint music is to be heard in the background of Joseph's thoughts. But yet, he was grateful for the way things had taken place. Because his father could have grounded him for life, and how would he see Lark, if he was stuck cooped up in his room?

That's right—he couldn't.

Joseph hoped he had done at least a bit of damage to Bobby's face, just as Bobby had done to him. He remembers the feeling of Bobby's fist punishing his nose, blood spluttering every which way.

The car pulls into Joseph's driveway, and almost immediately, Della was wandering outside, Tracy behind her. The two winced at the sight of Joseph's bloody nose.

"Mom is not happy."