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McCord tries to remind himself that Lincoln Six-Echo is two. Two. That's like, really sick or something. Like even pedophiles don't do that. Except, he thinks, Lincoln's two is more like in cat years or dog years. He's two in the way that he's completely and totally physically mature and is licking chocolate off his fingers like a hooker going down. Shit. McCord thinks. Shit. This shits. He fumbles for his hip flask, fiddles the cap off -- but that's not where he's looking. I'm not gonna do this, he thinks.

"Hey," Lincoln pipes up, brightening all innocent like. "Can I have some?"

McCord tries to remind himself that Lincoln Six-Echo is two.

"Yeah, sure, kid," he hears himself saying, watching Six-Echo's thumb push across the corner of his mouth where there's this little smudge of melted Snickers bar still. McCord looks down a the little silver gasoline can in his hands. Five bucks at the station by his house. Plymouth Gin. Eighty-two proof. "Sure," he says, raising it to his ear and shaking it to hear out how much is left. "You can have the whole thing," he says.

"Thanks!"

Lincoln's fingers brush McCord's as he takes the little flask from him. It's all wrong. It's real wrong. McCord'd be lying if he said that was the problem. That's why it turns him on.

Think about Suzie, he thinks. Suzie's mouth. Suzie's tits. Suzie's pussy. Yeah. And if he buys her a track suit it'll be just like it.

I'm fucked, McCord thinks. He watches Six-Echo put that gin down like a pro. Guy'll believe anything. He could probably tell him it was some sorta medical condition: 'Yeah, I'll be fine. Just put it in your mouth.'

McCord tries to remind himself that Lincoln Six-Echo is two.

Shit.