I looked up into the eye of a gun. She’d been that quiet. That fast. At the edge of my vision I’d half-seen a figure pass the front window of the Pump’n’Jump gas station, a shadow-walker blur against the red sunset and silhouetted palm trees. That was it. She stuck the gun in my face before the buzzer had finished the one-note song that announced her, made her real. The gun was shaking, a bad thing made somehow worse. I put down the pen I’d been using to fill out the crossword.
Deep regret: Remorse. Maybe the last word I would ever write. One I was familiar with.
I spread my fingers flat on the counter, between the bowl of spotted bananas at a dollar a piece and the two-for-one Clark Bars.
‘Don’t scream,’ the girl said.