When Sarah saw Matthew’s face go from frustration to what looked like fear, she thought he might be having a cramp in his ribs and silently congratulated herself for not assuming he was having a heart attack. But then she registered the gun in her face, and it was so shocking in its clarity, its heightened crisp quality: metallic, gray, gunmetal. They were walking under trees in the park; they would eventually head toward home. The smell of charcoal heating up, potato chips, sunscreen, garbage, urine; the progression toward dinner; even the argument: it was—if not exactly comforting—familiar, pacifying, even boring. She’d turned into the park, asked Matthew a question that was more indictment than question, he had tried to defend himself, and there was the barrel in her line of vision. Gunmetal. Used that shade on her toes for years. The gun was in her face; she found it difficult to swallow; a wave rose up inside her and she was going under.

“Jesus,” said Matthew. He’d been behind her and now he was grabbing her upper arm, as if she were a child about to run into traffic. “Okay,” he told the man in front of them, “okay.”

“Gimme your shit,” said the man. He wore a ski mask and gloves—must have been sweltering—he wasn’t white, not black, not Asian nor Hispanic. He was tall, big; he was a gun. Matthew almost never lost his temper, but she was instantly afraid that in a panic he might go off, punch this man, land them both in further danger.

But he’d already handed over his phone and his watch. “Here,” said her husband. “Take it.”

“Fuck that,” said someone.

“Gimme your bag.” Did she detect a speech impediment? Slightly slurred?

“Fuck you.”

She hadn’t recognized her voice as her own. Her heart was racing fast—faster than the third and last time she tried cocaine, years ago. “No,” she cried out, as he waved that gun at her. “I’m not giving you anything.” Matthew had handed over all he had. It was Sarah shouting “no,” Sarah gripping her bag as the gunman grabbed the skinny strap.

“Gimme the bag.”

“Enough,” said Matthew. “Jesus, Sarah,” yanking her bag.

“No!” she yelled, fighting him now, too, both sweat and a chill prickling her skin, egging her on to scream at the top of her lungs, but she didn’t scream; she bit down on the insides of her already chewed-up mouth. “No.”

“Give it!” the stranger shouted.

Matthew successfully tore the bag from her and tried to hand the man everything, but Sarah reached into it, scrambled and failed to grasp her phone.