And there it was. The bargain. The hook of usefulness. Roy wasn’t mad that Byron didn’t know his name or that they wanted him to leave. He wasn’t. He didn’t want the gun, but it could be useful. Spend money to make money. He’d heard that. Right. Do that, sell it, and maybe then you don’t have to ask John for anything anymore. Maybe there’s a way to get a step up, a little boost to get a payday ahead, just even one. Then you’re on the way to a place to stay and a real job and a girlfriend who forgets to wash her face, but turns the bacon and kisses you on the head.

In the end, Roy gave Mikey $80 for the gun, almost everything he had. Mikey and Byron clapped Roy on the back and told him to take care and that they’d see him later at work. They said it had been a good time, but they said it on the front stoop with their eyes already cast to the end of the block, watching the foot traffic in and out of the last house there.

Roy didn’t like the weight of the gun in his hand and insisted that it be wrapped up before he took it. He didn’t trust it not to slide across the truck’s seat or floor when he took a fast turn in a sharp bend. He didn’t want it in the glove box, either, with his registration, should he need it—the registration or the gun.

So he put the Monopoly box back where he’d gotten it in glee the night before, in a mood of belonging. He took the gun wrapped in the hand towel and layered it in with care inside the dry aquarium, beneath the board game, cushioned in with the undershirts, stacked newest to rattiest, the seven work shirts and two pairs of blue jeans, and the sad wad of shredded boxers and holey socks.

He put his jacket on the passenger seat. It was folded over the perfumed pillow he’d tucked inside it when Mikey and Byron weren’t looking. The girl said she’d wanted a new one because Roy had put his head on it. It was embarrassing, but he understood. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t.

But he was down $80, plus the little bit he’d spent at the bar. Now his cash wouldn’t last him until next payday. He realized he didn’t know how to get rid of the gun. It wasn’t like a normal thing to sell, not a normal question to ask. He didn’t know anyone who might know what to do with it.