“You should have called me when they arrested you.” Owen Johns glanced at Kelly as he drove through the early morning streets of Boston.
Kelly yawned and rubbed one eye as he slouched in the passenger seat. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or five times, Juice.”
Owen chuckled at Kelly’s childhood nickname for his foster brother. The scrawny eleven-year-old had heard Owen’s full name once, screwed up his little face, and asked, “Like juice?” And it stuck.