She looked up through her tears and caught the reflection of the streetlight off the birdbath. She ran to it, dumping the top over, soaking her feet and nearly crushing her toes. It was heavy. But her adrenaline was pumping. She’d heard of mothers doing incredible things in dire circumstances. Lifting cars. Telephone poles. A concrete birdbath was nothing. She picked it up and carried it to the front window, heaving it forward, through the glass.

The window gave way and the curtain came down. The birdbath rolled forward and struck the butcher in the leg. He fell. He appeared to be bleeding from the neck. There was blood everywhere.

April stumbled through the window. Charlie and Grandma Rose were nearly free of their bindings, but they seemed immobilized. Then April saw why: the butcher was rising to his feet. He was still very much alive, despite his damaged state. April got between the two opposing parties. “Leave my family alone,” she said.

The butcher laughed. A trickle of blood escaped his lips, mixing with the blood drenching his shirt at the neck. He staggered a bit.

April reached down and picked up Grandma Rose’s pink-handled scissors, the ones she never let Charlie cut construction paper with. They were stained crimson and stuck to her hand. They were expensive: heavy and deathly sharp. April swung them back and forth, feeling almost stupid, like a character from West Side Story. But she could see a hint of fear in the butcher’s eyes. He knew she meant business.

He lunged, a little off-kilter. Still, it was enough to knock April to the ground. He was on top of her, his face right in hers. He grabbed her by the neck and squeezed. April tried to swing the scissors at him, but he held her arms down. She couldn’t move.

He squeezed tighter. April swung her arms wildly. It was no use. Even weakened, he was too strong. Her vision tunneled.

And then.

The butcher rolled off.

April’s lungs seized, sucking oxygen back into her body. She sat up and rubbed her neck, still feeling the phantom hands of the butcher locked there. She saw him lying in front of her.

Dead.

April looked past the body. Grandma Rose lay slumped on the floor, a gun in her hands. The smell of gunpowder was still in the air.

“Joe gave it to me,” she said.

Who’s Joe? April wondered.

She felt Charlie’s arms wrap around her from behind. She turned to hold him. They both were crying. “Shh, shh,” April told him. “It’s all over.”

“But what about Dad?” Charlie asked between sobs.

April didn’t say anything. She didn’t have an answer yet.

She took out her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. Grandma Rose needed help, even though she said she was fine. A gunshot wound and she says she’s fine. Typical.

“What about Dad?”