"Danny...." she managed, before breaking into sobs. If he'd had an ally amongst the Baker's, Becca had always been the one.
Danny had always felt a bit like the court jester with Roddy's family - the chubby, gay appendage that most of the Bakers could easily have done without. In the six months since he'd first met them, Danny had never managed to move beyond small talk with any of them: except Becca.
Rebecca Baker was a pistol. As tall as Roddy or her father, Becca towered over Danny and most of the wiry boys she coveted at the few arts-and-disaffection joints she frequented downtown. She wore her hair in a classic bob that she'd had sheared off like a terraced cliff in the back, and was as likely to steal "Daddy's" truck or come home drunk as any of her brothers. She was the youngest, the only girl, and Roddy's absolute best friend in the world.
Standing in the cold outside his office, his nose and hand freezing, Danny paced back and forth, watching his new black boots hold their shine against the grit of the sidewalk. He walked and waited, heart pounding, as he listened to her cry.
"Bec?" He felt his own chest starting to heave and a painful shove of tears into his eyes, "Becca, what's going on?"
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