Jesus.
The guy with the gun kneels down by me. “Are
you sure you’re okay?”
His voice is soft and I wonder just how old
he is because that cap makes him look impossibly young, but the
hands that touch my arms are sure and strong and he has a man’s
voice.
“Fine,” I whisper. I don’t trust myself to
speak any louder. I’m shaking too hard.
He starts to pick up my groceries that litter
the ground like discarded trash. The soda’s all over the place and
one of the boxes of rice is soaked through, uncooked noodles are
scattered everywhere, there’s a footprint in one of my microwave
dinners. Shit.But he picks up what he can, dusts off the
salt, and sticks it in his grocery bag that’s sitting on the ground
beside him. I don’t even have the energy to stop him.
When all my stuff’s in his bag, he stands up
and takes my arm. “Come on.” His voice is still so soft, so gentle.
I let him help me up. “I’ll take you home. Come on.”
His arm slips around my waist and I don’t