The man sputters on the floor as I stand over him; my foot pressed against his shoulder. I had kicked the pistol well out of his reach.

“Freeze! Hands up!” Comes a call from behind me.

I do as I’m ordered.

“On the ground, now!”

I fall to my knees with my hands over my head.

“Sir! He’s the one who was shot!” Came a call from a nearby aisle.

“The man on the ground was the one who fired the gun!” Comes a different voice.

“Yeah! He was beating his son and this man stopped him.”

The officer seems to hesitate. I do not make a move. I know that the officer would be a much better shot than this thug currently sobbing on the ground. Regardless of what the people said, the cop rushes me and pushes me to the ground. He lifts up my shirt to search my waistband. A few of the onlookers gasp as my back is revealed. He quickly lowers it and turns me over.

“Get up.” He pats my shoulder and helps me stand. He eyes the whole on my shirt and the fresh blood stain.

“You were shot there? I don’t see a wound.”

“Ah, just a graze.” I lie.

“Uh-huh.”

The officer turned his attention to the man on the floor. I take a step back, but even at this distance, I could see him eyeing the cracks in the tile.

“He’s a superhero!” Came the cry of the child behind the shopping cart, “Arturo shot him but the hole closed on its own! Like Wolverine!”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

I press a finger against my lips as I look at the kid. The kid slaps his mouth with his hand and nods. I could hear him whisper something that sounded an awful lot like, ‘secret identity.’

“Can I leave officer?”

“No, we’re going to have to take you in for questioning.” The officer said as he cuffed the slathering man on the floor.

“Eh, can’t we do it here?”

“Afraid not.”

I sigh. I didn’t want to have to resort to this, but I pull out the badge that Ortega had given to me the week before as he was calling in for an EMT. He took it as his hand fell from his radio. He looks it over and a sign of recognition spreads on his face.

“Ah, you’re one of those. Yeah, I heard you can’t ride in cars. We’ll do it here, so what happened?”

So I explained it. Play by play. The fact that man slapped his child several times, I confronted him, and how I only responded after he attacked me. He was holding a voice recorder and turned it off when I was done. While we were talking a crowd had gathered around. I feel uncomfortable, but I don’t balk. My heart thumps proudly in my chest as I excuse myself from the officer and return to my cart. The EMT leads the officer and Dylan away. He waves, and I wave back.

People’s eyes were upon me, and for the first time in a long time, I do not feel disgust behind their gaze. I ignore it all the same and continue to put the books back into their place on the shelf.

“Lawrence? Is that you?”

A familiar voice calls from behind.

I turn my head. My brother’s wife stands there with a cart full of goods. Her auburn hair was tied up in a messy bun. She wore a pair of tight-fitting yoga pants and a pink coat. She was probably drawn to the sound of the gunshot and the bustle of the EMTs that had made their way through the store. She was always the type to stop and smile at a train wreck.

“Allie.” I nod my head and put the last of the books back in their place.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice had that familiar disgusted snarl.

“Shopping,” I answer. I do not look her in the eye.

“Aw. And here I hoped you were finally dead.” She scoffs.

I didn’t respond. I had no need to. Anger boiled in me. She had always been like this, ever since my breakdown in my early 20s. More than once, without my brother knowing, she had encouraged me to go ahead with my plans to end my life during my lowest parts. I wanted to make up with Mark. I wanted nothing at all to do with her.

“Is Mark here?” I ask.

“No, he has a job, unlike someone.”

“Then fuck off,” I say. I push my cart up to the front.

“Excuuuuse me?”

“You heard me.”

As I turned around she must have seen the bullet hole in my shirt and the scars still barely visible on my face. Her face blanched and she cast her eyes down. As I push past her cart, I put 200 dollars in her purse. That’s all that I owed them, I add another 100. For interest. Hatred burned behind her hazel eyes as I passed.

“Now we have nothing to do with each other,” I say.

“Excuse me, we aren’t done here.” She turns her cart around and storms to me and grabs my shoulder. “You do NOT get to talk to me like that.”

She raises her hand as if to slap me, but is stopped by the hand of an older woman. I recognize her as one of the witnesses. Still, Allie spits at me. A glob of it falls off my shirt. I wipe it off with my sleeve and leave, as I do so I hear the older woman scorn Allie. I tarry a bit to hear it. Ah, a bit of satisfaction.

I pay for my things. 1800 dollars worth of things. I pay with cash and leave. I’m going to have to get a card eventually. Carrying cash would become cumbersome at a point, as I push my cart out of the store, Ortega is waiting for me with a car. We exchange pleasantries as I help him load the trunk of his black coupe. As we finish, I take a few bags of clothes with me and head back to the motel. He waves as he passes me in the street. I notice Allie storm to her car with her phone pressed against her ear. Ah, I was probably going to have to hear it from Mark. Oh well. I cast healing on my shoulder again, it still aches, after all.