Helen held the buttered roll wrapped in wax paper. As he headed toward her, she asked, “Cigarettes today?”

He shuddered. “Don’t tempt me,” he said. “I’m trying to lay off.”

She put the roll on the counter and turned to the cash register. As it rang its tally, the bell on the front door also jingled. Someone entered the store and swept in between Helen and Owen. The interloper was dressed in a black jacket, pants, and boots, and nearly knocked the cup out of Owen’s hand.

The librarian took a step back, absolutely fine with this customer being served before him. Owen never looked for a fight. He’d been in one in grade school and lost badly. Even a loud argument now was more than he cared to deal with. He heard Helen say, “Mister, you’ll have to get in line. This customer was here before you.”

“It’s OK,” said Owen. “I’m fine.” And then something happened. He couldn’t see what it was; he just saw the expression of sick surprise on Helen’s face. Only when she backed away and put her hands out in front of her did he see the stranger’s arm come up and follow her movement. In his hand was a black revolver. Owen froze. He heard the man say, “Open the register and give me the money.” It became immediately evident Helen was in a similar state of paralysis.

“I’m not fucking around,” said the man.

Owen meant to jump the gunman from behind, but instead of his arms and legs moving, his mouth opened slightly and a short, strangled cry escaped. In response, the man swung his arm without turning completely around and smashed the librarian in the jaw with the butt of the gun. The attack came in a blur. The next Owen knew, he was reeling backward into a stand of snacks, and lights in his head were blinking. He staggered, tripped, and fell to the floor, snacks flying in all directions, bags popping beneath him. As he tumbled into darkness, he heard a gunshot in the distance.

Owen came to in a panic, ringing in his ears. There was a cop squatting next to him. “Easy, brother,” said the officer as he grabbed Owen’s left arm. “Take a few deep breaths.”

He did as he was told, and the ringing slowly subsided. Behind it was the percussion of his racing pulse. Things beyond the immediate face of the cop revealed themselves slowly, and he watched, entranced, as reality put the jigsaw of itself back together. He saw other officers moving around. He sensed a crowd outside. In an instant he remembered what happened. “The girl behind the counter,” he said to the cop.

There was an expression on the man’s face as if weighing some decision. “Deceased,” he finally said.

“No. You can’t be right.”

“I’m afraid it’s true.”

“What?”