Vehicles keep driving past, eyes watching the little sideshow on the corner. The traffic slows, with a blinking of red brake lights, and stops. Anne’s heart picks up the pace, her heart thumping against her breastbone. As her hand caresses the pistol’s grip, her eyes turn to slits of rage. The man’s tone reminds her too much of her father and mother. She won’t be belittled or threatened by this man. She will stand her ground. The man sways, each step bringing him inches closer. Reaching for the can that Sweet Tart hugs to her little chest.

Anne pulls the pistol free. Stands up. Withdraws her other hand from Sweet Tart. Two-handing the .38’s weight. Just as she used to on her father’s friend’s property, target-practicing while the two men got shit-faced. Training the gun on the intruder, she says, “Or I could give you another hole to breathe from.”

The greasy man’s eyes register surprise. “You wouldn’t shoot a poor unarmed man.”

“And you wouldn’t steal from two girls trying to earn their way in life, would you, you pathetic walking pile of shit?”

Standing statue-still, he seems to contemplate his next action. Cars roll by. Eyes gawk. But Anne ignores their glances, keeping her focus on the man in her sights. She tunes out the sounds of the surrounding city, letting them blur into an indistinct white noise. All she can hear is the frenzied beating of her heart, driving a bass rhythm in her eardrums. All she can see is this piss-poor excuse for a man as everything around him fades to black. Her finger moves from trigger guard to trigger, and she braces her arms and body for the kick of the pistol. Imagining the hole the bullet will bore through his chest, and how much blood will drain from it, when a voice yells, “You heard what she told you.”

The black dissipates from around the man as the outside world comes back into view, and she feels as if she just resurfaced after being trapped underwater. The greasy man turns around to find Cinnamon, Trot, Canary, and little brother Apple giving menacing looks.

“Look, sistah,” he says to Cinnamon, “we got no beefs with you. It’s this hippie and her half-pint.”

“I ain’t your sister, old-timer, and they’re with me. Part of my family. You know what’s best, you’ll take your buggy and your Aunt Hazel heroin bitch and move the fuck on.”

Outnumbered, the greasy man raises his palms and starts to backpedal, bumping into his frail female partner. And they turn away, pushing their cart.

Anne kneels down and slides the pistol back into her backpack. Her whole frame quakes and jitters with nerves. She feels hollowed out. Her stomach swims in a state of queasiness. Cinnamon grabs her forearm and guides her back to an upright posture. “Where the shit did you get a gun?”