one, turning each can and facing it ingredients-out so she can compare them. A young black kid is counting the coins in his pockets at the counter, trying to give exact change for the half gallon of milk he's picked out.
You stand there, whispering to the boy, "one more dime," even though you know he can't hear you. You ease over and point at the third shelf of canned soups, trying to help the old lady find the split pea soup without MSG that she's mumbling about. You are the angel on the shoulder of the store owner, willing him to flip to the foreign section, where you're sure he can find a beater Toyota to fix up. You look up at the closed-circuit television security monitor, hoping to see yourself—but you're not there.
The front door swings open and the two greasy dudes roll into the minimart. One goes back to the beer case. He loads up his arms with a case of Budweiser. The other guy stands at the counter and watches the kid leave with the milk carton, carrying it like he's cuddling a baby.
And then you see the gun.
You are helpless to stop what's happening. You watch the guy pull the weapon on the store owner and demand he hand over all the cash in the drawer.
"
Dios Mio!
" says the owner, backing away, his hands in the air. "Don't shoot!"
The old lady screams, and the guy with the beer comes up to her and pushes her over, into the cans of soup. She stays down on the floor wimpering at his feet. Meanwhile, the pasty white guy at the counter starts to pistol-whip the owner. There is blood.
You think of Aldo. You zoom to his room, which used to be Holly's.
"Dial 9-1-1," you tell Aldo, who's sitting in a chair near the bed, dressed in his pajamas. "Please. It's an emergency, Aldo." Frantically, you point at the pink telephone on the nightstand.
Aldo covers his ears with his hands. "You mind speaking softer, kid?"
"Sorry, there's an emergency. We need to tell the police there is a robbery in progress at the minimart on fifteenth Northeast and Chester," you say. "They need to send an ambulance. Pick up the phone!"
< Seig at the m/div>
Aldo's brows knot in worry. "I want to help, but I—I'm not sure I can do it. With you I can talk so easily. Not with others."
"You have to try. Please. Remember the day you repeated what I said to the lady at the senior center?
Buzz off?
Can't you try to do that again? I'll just say stuff and you copy it."
"All right." Aldo is shaky. He picks up the receiver and hits the numbers slowly, as carefully as he can, and you can tell he is concentrating.
Nine. One. One.
"What's your emergency?" you hear a woman's voice say loudly through the earpiece.
"There's been a robbery. We need the police," you coach.
Aldo takes a deep breath. "It's a robbery," he says in a grumbly voice. "Send the
polizia.
" He's talking so slowly—he's concentrating on each word, focusing on saying it so the dispatcher will understand.
You worry that the store owner will be dead by the time he gets the sentences out. "Focus, Aldo. Tell them it's the minimart on Chester and fifteenth Northeast. They need an ambulance."
Aldo looks into my eyes. Connecting. "Minimart on Chester and fifteenth Northeast. Send an ambulance," he carefully repeats. Then he hangs up and stares at you with wide eyes, his cheeks flushed.
"Good job. Thank you, Aldo," you say.
"You think they understood me?"
"I hope so. It was bad. Really bad." You ball your fists, thinking of the store owner bleeding from his ear, face-down on the floor behind the counter. You focus on the blood, and it makes you remember the pain of slamming through the windshield and then the nothingness of letting go of your body. You think that pain unexpected or unforeseen hurts much worse than pain you expect.
"That was the right thing to do. You're a good kid." Aldo's voice rouses you out of the memory.
You remember you're safely dead. Nothing can hurt you now—at least, you don't think it can. "Thanks," you manage.
You both breathe deeply as the tense
You stand there, whispering to the boy, "one more dime," even though you know he can't hear you. You ease over and point at the third shelf of canned soups, trying to help the old lady find the split pea soup without MSG that she's mumbling about. You are the angel on the shoulder of the store owner, willing him to flip to the foreign section, where you're sure he can find a beater Toyota to fix up. You look up at the closed-circuit television security monitor, hoping to see yourself—but you're not there.
The front door swings open and the two greasy dudes roll into the minimart. One goes back to the beer case. He loads up his arms with a case of Budweiser. The other guy stands at the counter and watches the kid leave with the milk carton, carrying it like he's cuddling a baby.
And then you see the gun.
You are helpless to stop what's happening. You watch the guy pull the weapon on the store owner and demand he hand over all the cash in the drawer.
"
Dios Mio!
" says the owner, backing away, his hands in the air. "Don't shoot!"
The old lady screams, and the guy with the beer comes up to her and pushes her over, into the cans of soup. She stays down on the floor wimpering at his feet. Meanwhile, the pasty white guy at the counter starts to pistol-whip the owner. There is blood.
You think of Aldo. You zoom to his room, which used to be Holly's.
"Dial 9-1-1," you tell Aldo, who's sitting in a chair near the bed, dressed in his pajamas. "Please. It's an emergency, Aldo." Frantically, you point at the pink telephone on the nightstand.
Aldo covers his ears with his hands. "You mind speaking softer, kid?"
"Sorry, there's an emergency. We need to tell the police there is a robbery in progress at the minimart on fifteenth Northeast and Chester," you say. "They need to send an ambulance. Pick up the phone!"
< Seig at the m/div>
Aldo's brows knot in worry. "I want to help, but I—I'm not sure I can do it. With you I can talk so easily. Not with others."
"You have to try. Please. Remember the day you repeated what I said to the lady at the senior center?
Buzz off?
Can't you try to do that again? I'll just say stuff and you copy it."
"All right." Aldo is shaky. He picks up the receiver and hits the numbers slowly, as carefully as he can, and you can tell he is concentrating.
Nine. One. One.
"What's your emergency?" you hear a woman's voice say loudly through the earpiece.
"There's been a robbery. We need the police," you coach.
Aldo takes a deep breath. "It's a robbery," he says in a grumbly voice. "Send the
polizia.
" He's talking so slowly—he's concentrating on each word, focusing on saying it so the dispatcher will understand.
You worry that the store owner will be dead by the time he gets the sentences out. "Focus, Aldo. Tell them it's the minimart on Chester and fifteenth Northeast. They need an ambulance."
Aldo looks into my eyes. Connecting. "Minimart on Chester and fifteenth Northeast. Send an ambulance," he carefully repeats. Then he hangs up and stares at you with wide eyes, his cheeks flushed.
"Good job. Thank you, Aldo," you say.
"You think they understood me?"
"I hope so. It was bad. Really bad." You ball your fists, thinking of the store owner bleeding from his ear, face-down on the floor behind the counter. You focus on the blood, and it makes you remember the pain of slamming through the windshield and then the nothingness of letting go of your body. You think that pain unexpected or unforeseen hurts much worse than pain you expect.
"That was the right thing to do. You're a good kid." Aldo's voice rouses you out of the memory.
You remember you're safely dead. Nothing can hurt you now—at least, you don't think it can. "Thanks," you manage.
You both breathe deeply as the tense
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