His jacket rustles when I tap his shoulder. I have to look up to do it, my neck craning because he’s a larger man, rotund from drinking and not doing a damn thing else. When he turns I’m quick to hit him in his groin, catching him off guard to steal his wallet.

Chase me down the alley, my inner voice prays. My sneakers squeak as I run farther to the left, farther away from the couple kissing past the dumpsters at the start of the busy street.

So we can be alone.

“Little shit.” His groan fills the smaller space, the alley that leads down to an old row of homes built for the steel mill. You can barely fit a bike through this alley. I remember when my brother did it, though.

With everything raging inside of me, I don’t count on the tears or how my gaze becomes glossy at the memory.

Cody had me on the back of his bike, and he was able to ride down an alley just like this one. I remember how scared I was that he was going to hit the wall or that his handlebars would catch the side of a brick. I shouldn’t be thinking of him right now. I lose myself, my focus, I lose everything remembering how I held on so tight to him. Stopping in my tracks, right in the middle, the man curses behind me and grabs my shoulder.

I don’t even recall my hand wrapping around the blade, but when I strike him in the gut, once then twice, that’s when I realize what I’ve done and that I’m still here. I’m not back with Cody, holding on to a small bag of candy.

I’m not there at all. I’m holding a bloody blade and looking up at a man who fails to say anything.

Harold looks older than the picture in the paper when I look up. His skin is a little more yellow too, and more wrinkled than the paper. The shock in his gaze was also absent then.

I hesitate for only a moment when his wide eyes look down at me. He stumbles back just slightly and I stand facing him in the narrow alley, his wallet in one hand and the blade in the other.

My heart is still racing, but he’s more disoriented than I am. And I’m the one with the plan. He swallows thickly before calling out for help.

The man’s on his ass, scooting backward. He’s trying to get away, but what’s done is done. There’s sorrow and sympathy, but it’s odd how it comes, how it’s because it’s like Cody’s watching me. He wouldn’t want this, but Cody’s not here and he’ll never know.

Everything speeds up then. I only hesitate because he’s watching me. The moment Harold turns his head to look behind him, maybe to cry out for help again, I strike. Eating up the short distance between us with long strides and slicing his throat.