little shot,” he said on the exhale.
He seemed so calm. Was it shock? Or had the bullet hit something vital? I had no idea what kinds of organs he might be keeping in his shot place. Too low for lungs. Too high for intestines. Why had I made Walcott do all our dissections in high school? Typical.
I realized I was five seconds from losing my complete shit, panic rising up in me like a gorge. Losing my shit sounded so wonderful, too, a delicious luxury. I wanted to fall into terrible screamy little chunks and weep and flop on the floor and let someone else press their hands hard into this yellow cardigan, saving William, getting their palms slick with his warm, red, living human blood. But Natty’s face was pinched and white. He was looking to me. I’d already sat like a lump through a whole robbery, not saving him. I had to be better. William had said the word destiny to me, and he’d taken a bullet for us. I had to become a whole ’nother better person, worthy of William, able to protect my son, right this second.
The clerk, Carrie, stepped into my peripheral vision, her head moving, looking first at Stevie, then at William, then at Stevie, like there was some kind of invisible tennis ball bouncing back and forth between them.
Stevie’s chest jerked. He inhaled. It was a bubbling, mucus-y noise that I thought I would hear in every bad dream I had for the rest of my life.
The paperweight lay nearby, daisy side up, wrongfully cheery. Stevie’s eyes were open, but not in a looking way or even an alive way, in spite of the breath he had just taken. They were like glass eyes someone had put into his head. He’d breathed in, but it was obvious that Stevie-Our-Robber-Today would not be getting up and resuming his duties.
But maybe it was only obvious to me. When Stevie took a second thick breath, chest hitching, Carrie’s mouth yawped open and the most ungodly howl came out. She galloped right to the door, scrabbling at the ridiculous flip lock Stevie had turned before his head was all stove in. She swung the door wide and sprinted away, her animal howl evolving into a human word: “Help, help, help!”
I heard her pounding footsteps receding, then the jingle bells went off as she exploded out the front door. I waited for the police to shoot her by accident, but I didn’t hear anyone shoot her. Maybe she had thought to put her hands up, or they were just good, smart police.
Natty asked William, “Does it hurt you to be shotted?” It sent a ting of worry up my spine, because Natty at three often spoke like a forty-year-old accountant. I had heard him say, “Let me compose myself,” and “This hill makes me exhausted.” He hadn’t added extra ed s onto his verbs for more than a year.
“It doesn’t feel great,” William said.
Sweat was beading on his forehead and upper lip, though I was shivering myself half to death. I had no idea which of us was right, if it was hot or cold. I could feel the pulse of his heart in the heat of the wound. It felt good and strong. It felt unstoppable. But only the tiniest piece of time ago, he had surged across the room like some huge, unfolding beast of prey. He had seemed unshootable, and look how that turned out.
I heard the jingle bells chiming like crazy, a lot footsteps pounding toward us. A whole crowd of people, coming to help.
“They’re almost here. Hold on,” I told William.
“No, thank you,” William said.
Then they burst in the door, a huge, confusing wave of human noise and color. Policemen first, fast and cautious, then paramedics, and some other people in uniforms I did not recognize, and some in regular clothes.
Paramedics swarmed around William. I got moved back, out of the way, by a guy in a kind of boxy jacket thing that made me think he was a fireman. He was tall and very calm. He wrapped us up in a blanket, asking me if we were hurt.
“We’re good,” I said. “Please just help William.”
“Don’t worry,” he said to me, and to
He seemed so calm. Was it shock? Or had the bullet hit something vital? I had no idea what kinds of organs he might be keeping in his shot place. Too low for lungs. Too high for intestines. Why had I made Walcott do all our dissections in high school? Typical.
I realized I was five seconds from losing my complete shit, panic rising up in me like a gorge. Losing my shit sounded so wonderful, too, a delicious luxury. I wanted to fall into terrible screamy little chunks and weep and flop on the floor and let someone else press their hands hard into this yellow cardigan, saving William, getting their palms slick with his warm, red, living human blood. But Natty’s face was pinched and white. He was looking to me. I’d already sat like a lump through a whole robbery, not saving him. I had to be better. William had said the word destiny to me, and he’d taken a bullet for us. I had to become a whole ’nother better person, worthy of William, able to protect my son, right this second.
The clerk, Carrie, stepped into my peripheral vision, her head moving, looking first at Stevie, then at William, then at Stevie, like there was some kind of invisible tennis ball bouncing back and forth between them.
Stevie’s chest jerked. He inhaled. It was a bubbling, mucus-y noise that I thought I would hear in every bad dream I had for the rest of my life.
The paperweight lay nearby, daisy side up, wrongfully cheery. Stevie’s eyes were open, but not in a looking way or even an alive way, in spite of the breath he had just taken. They were like glass eyes someone had put into his head. He’d breathed in, but it was obvious that Stevie-Our-Robber-Today would not be getting up and resuming his duties.
But maybe it was only obvious to me. When Stevie took a second thick breath, chest hitching, Carrie’s mouth yawped open and the most ungodly howl came out. She galloped right to the door, scrabbling at the ridiculous flip lock Stevie had turned before his head was all stove in. She swung the door wide and sprinted away, her animal howl evolving into a human word: “Help, help, help!”
I heard her pounding footsteps receding, then the jingle bells went off as she exploded out the front door. I waited for the police to shoot her by accident, but I didn’t hear anyone shoot her. Maybe she had thought to put her hands up, or they were just good, smart police.
Natty asked William, “Does it hurt you to be shotted?” It sent a ting of worry up my spine, because Natty at three often spoke like a forty-year-old accountant. I had heard him say, “Let me compose myself,” and “This hill makes me exhausted.” He hadn’t added extra ed s onto his verbs for more than a year.
“It doesn’t feel great,” William said.
Sweat was beading on his forehead and upper lip, though I was shivering myself half to death. I had no idea which of us was right, if it was hot or cold. I could feel the pulse of his heart in the heat of the wound. It felt good and strong. It felt unstoppable. But only the tiniest piece of time ago, he had surged across the room like some huge, unfolding beast of prey. He had seemed unshootable, and look how that turned out.
I heard the jingle bells chiming like crazy, a lot footsteps pounding toward us. A whole crowd of people, coming to help.
“They’re almost here. Hold on,” I told William.
“No, thank you,” William said.
Then they burst in the door, a huge, confusing wave of human noise and color. Policemen first, fast and cautious, then paramedics, and some other people in uniforms I did not recognize, and some in regular clothes.
Paramedics swarmed around William. I got moved back, out of the way, by a guy in a kind of boxy jacket thing that made me think he was a fireman. He was tall and very calm. He wrapped us up in a blanket, asking me if we were hurt.
“We’re good,” I said. “Please just help William.”
“Don’t worry,” he said to me, and to
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