2

“MR. MINTON? Mr. Minton, are you okay?”

It was a man’s voice. A familiar voice. There was concern, not mayhem, in the words. I opened my eyes and saw Theodore Wally, the clerk from Antonio and Sons Superette next door. He was a young man, but his face was ready for old age. It was medium brown and soft with fleshy weight around the eyes.

“Mr. Minton?” he asked again. “Are you okay?”

I didn’t answer because I was preoccupied with the miracle of my survival. The killer, I figured, was still human enough not to want to murder children. When he saw them he decided to spare me. I lifted my head, and a pain as sharp as Fearless Jones’s bayonet traveled the length of my spine.

“Help me up,” I said, fearing that I was paralyzed.

The little shopkeeper pulled as hard as he could and I sat up. When I got to my feet the pain was even worse, but I could take steps without falling.

“Damn! Ow!”

“You okay, Mr. Minton?”

“Why don’t you call me Paris, Theodore?” I said, angry at the world.

“I don’t know. It’s the way I was raised, I guess.”

“You call Freddy at the hot dog stand Freddy.” A wave of pain crashed in my head. I almost lost my footing, but Theodore held me up.

“You okay? You want a doctor?”

“No. But thank you. Thank you. How come you came in here?”

“Those kids, Elbert and them. They come in the store an’ said you was dead, that a big, ugly man killed you.”

“Where the kids?”

“Outside.”

I tripped over the downed burlap curtain going through the doorway from my back room. When I got outside the sunlight made my eyes feel as if they were going to explode.

“You okay, Mr. Minton?” a too-tall-for-his-age eight-year-old cried.