“I d-d-don’t know. I-I-I…” I never had a stutter, and yet here I am, stammering like a kid called on by the teacher for a question she doesn’t know the answer to. Dario wouldn’t sound like this. Willa wouldn’t either. “I saw the Colonia take—”

“Stop talking,” Tommy interrupts, putting a handful of red and white gingham napkins on Massimo’s thigh. “We don’t wanna know nothing. Just patch him up and get him out of here.”

“Pressure,” Junior instructs, taking Massimo’s pulse. He looks at me, then his dad, then back at me. “Dad! Pressure!”

“We got a full house out front.”

Junior grabs my hand and puts it on the ball of gingham, pressing down. Tommy starts for the front, but I reach into my pocket with my free hand and wrestle out the gun.

“Stop!”

Tommy puts up his hands and jabs a thumb toward the front of the store “I’m closing.” He stiffens, and I realize I’ve tightened my grip on the trigger. “I’m not gonna do nothing. Just the clear the place out.”

Deep breath. I move the barrel to the side.

“No phone calls, okay? Don’t doubt for a minute I’ll shoot you too.”

Junior and Tommy exchange a fast glance. I think they’re just realizing I’m the one who put a bullet in my brother’s leg.

“Lady,” Tommy says, “I already wish you’d shoot me.”

“Okay.” I relax.

He backs away and only turns when he’s halfway down the hall. My brother hasn’t made a sound since we got back here, and I notice his face is pale and slicked with moisture.

The sound of my brother’s pants being ripped frightens me, and I put the gun up again.

“Easy there.” Junior tips the napkins slightly to open the rip and inspect the wound. “You don’t gotta be scared. My dad’s not gonna call anyone. Trust me.”

“That’s why I’m here. I trust you.”

“Behind you’s a shelf. It’s got bags of flour. You’re either going to get one off or you’re going to stand here and put pressure on this hole in his leg.”

Both require me to put down the gun. I hesitate.

“Pick one, lady. If he dies, I ain’t digging the hole to put him in.”

I pocket the gun and apply pressure to the wound. The cloths are already soaked in blood.

Junior hoists a twenty-pound bag of flour over his shoulder.

Not pointing a gun at someone has lifted a weight from my heart. I didn’t like how scared it made Tommy and Junior. Everything they did for Massimo was because of the threat I held in my hands. The power was bought too cheaply.

“I’m sorry,” I say as if that helps. “This is important.”

“And you’re scared.” Junior lifts Massimo’s uninjured leg. “Help me out here.”

“Yes.” I free one hand to pick up Massimo’s leg so Junior can fit the bag under the heel.

“People do bad shit when they’re scared.”

“I won’t.” I want him to believe me as much as I trust him, but he doesn’t, and I don’t blame him. “Is he going to be all right?”