I’m pretty sure I’ve just killed four men. One with my own hands, the other three with my… ability.

The shotgun is still in my hands. I want to drop it. It feels radioactive like it’s cooking my guts.

Someone is taking it from me.

She’s speaking in gentle tones that I can’t quite make out over the ringing in my ears. It brings tears to my eyes, her kindness.

It’s the bank manager. She’s making the same sort of face my mom did whenever I’d hurt myself and she was trying to be brave about it. I want to let her fold me into her arms.

She takes me by my shoulders and steers me over to her office and into one of the chairs. She pats my face and leaves.

I don’t want to be alone at all but before I can stand, the door is blocked by the woman with the stroller. She comes in and sits beside me. The baby is quiet, her big eyes searching the room.

“Oh,” I say. I take out the rattle and hand it to the woman.

She takes it and sobs once, then takes my hand.

The African American woman comes in then too and sits down in the chair on the other side of me. She takes my other hand in both of hers and strokes my forearm.

I say, “There’s blood on me.”

“I know, baby,” says the black woman but doesn't pull away. She’s full-figured in a tight blue jogging outfit. Her face and eyes are kind.

I look at the blonde woman. “I’ve got it all over me, don't I?” I say.

She nods. “It washes off,” she says. “Though I’d burn the clothes. God knows where those evil bastards have been.”

The other woman snorts and says, “That’s the truth right there.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“For what?” says the woman in blue.

“I’m crying,” I say. “I’m a mess.”

“Everybody’s crying, hon,” she tells me. “In relief. In thanks. To you. My name is Marjorie and I am so so pleased to meet you.”

The blonde sniffs and says, “I’m Laura Rigby. And if you’re going to be sick there’s a trash can right there.”

“I’m Ben,” I say. My stomach is roiling but I don't think I'm going to vomit.

I hear a commotion behind me and turn my head. The bank manager has collected more chairs and arranged them in front of the counter. She gets everybody to sit down while she uses a piece of paper to pick up each of the dead men’s weapons and put them in the waste basket. I'm pretty sure it's the one by the coffee machine.

I hear sirens. The police are coming and there will be questions I’m not sure I can answer. I panic and start to stand but the ladies keep hold of me.

“What is it?” says Marjorie. “The cops? Yes, they’re coming here but not for you.”

Laura says, “One of them is probably Arthur. My husband. He’ll be frantic.”

I want to run even though I know it’s stupid. I’m so scared and, “I’m so tired.”

“I know you are,” says Marjorie. “You must be.” She’s rubbing my back.

I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I did. I heard myself mumble it out.

I hear the bank manager talking to the people out in the bank proper. Then she comes to the door. “How’s he doing?” she asks.

Laura says, “He’s doing fine, considering.”

“Good,” says the manager and she smiles at me. “I’m very glad to hear that. The police will be here any moment. Stay seated and do what they say. Have nothing at all in your hands. They might be kind of excitable. I’ve told the dispatcher that it’s over but in the training courses they make us take they tell us it’s always better to be careful, okay?”

“Don’t I know it,” says Marjorie.

The manager squats down in front of me to look me in the eye. “Everybody is so thankful for what you did,” she says. “You might have saved us all.” She squeezes my knee. “I have two children.”

“I've got three,” says Marjorie, smiling. “Four, six, and nine.”

“Twelve and thirteen,” says the manager.

“You poor thing,” says Marjorie. “Teenagers.”

The manager rolls her eyes. She looks at the baby and looks for permission from Laura before taking the little tyke’s foot between forefinger and thumb. The manager plays with the baby’s foot, gently lifting it up and down. The baby giggles.

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“And how old is little miss?” asks the manager.

“Four months,” says Laura.

“Sleeping through the night yet?” asks Marjorie.

“God, no.”

The women laugh as the first police cars pull up. There are no sirens now. Cops pile out and hurry into the building, hands on their holsters.

“I’ll be right back,” says the manager. She stands and walks in slow measured strides out her office door with her hands on her head.

A third police car screams into the lot. The door opens almost before the smoking wheels stop turning and a man leaps out, running for the door.

“Arthur,” says Laura.

Arthur must’ve forgotten to put the car in park. It’s rolling toward the curb and gathering momentum. I’m worried that it’ll hop the low curb and crash into the windows which is all we need right now.

I push a little at the darkness building up out there and the car rocks back from the lip of the sidewalk and comes to a rest.

Maybe that was me. Maybe not.

Arthur is calling for his wife in the lobby.

Laura stands and waves. “We’re okay,” she tells him when he reaches the door. “Everybody’s fine.”

“Except for the robbers,” says Marjorie under her breath. “Thank God.”

“Thank God!” echoes Arthur, who takes Laura into his arms. “I remembered you were going to the bank this morning and when I heard the call—. Then you weren’t answering your phone—.”

“I turned the ringer off when the bastards came in and dialed nine-one-one. I turned the volume all the way down,” says Laura, and she shrugs. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“It was,” says her husband. “It was!” He looks at me. “Is he okay? Are you okay, sir?”

“He’s fine,” says Marjorie. “That isn’t his.”

Blood. She means all the blood. On me.

“He saved us, Arthur,” says Laura. “One of them tripped and fell. When he did, he shot the guy at the counter with the bag. Then Ben here grabbed the shotgun from the robber who had it and it went off, killing the guy who tripped. Before he died, he shot the man with the shotgun and Ben got to the front door and waited for the last man.”

“I didn’t want to kill anybody,” I say. “He was about to start shooting.”

Arthur leans in close to me. “Don’t say anything else,” he says in a low voice. “You’re not in trouble but the less you say the better, okay? Any discrepancy in your story from here on out might look funny and you don’t need that. You saved my wife and child. I’ll look after you as best I can.” He gives me a friendly swat on the arm. He kisses his wife. “I’m going to go fill them in, okay? We’re taking statements. The detectives’ll be here soon.” Then he’s out the door.

“Mr. Walker?” says a voice.

I realize I’ve fallen asleep. Probably just for a few minutes.

“Poor baby,” I hear Marjorie say. She’s still got my hand. So does Laura.

I look up and Arthur is there looking down at me. “Yes?” I say and then I wonder how he knows my last name. I’m pretty sure I didn’t tell anybody.

“We want to take you down to the station to get your statement about what happened, okay?” says Arthur. "We'll get you something to eat and you'll be comfortable there."

Laura says, “Is that really necessary? I told you what happened. It was all right in front of me, Arthur, plain as day.”

But Arthur keeps talking to me. “You’re not being arrested at this time, Mr. Walker,” he says. “The sheriff wants to do everything by the book. People are dead, okay?”

I nod and the ladies help me stand. I might have fallen over if they hadn’t. I’m so tired and I'm shaky. I wonder if I'm in shock.

“I’ll take him down there myself,” says Arthur to his wife. “And I’ll do what I can to look after him, I promise.”

“He saved my life, Arthur,” says Laura. “And Beth’s. We owe him a lot.”

“I know,” says Arthur. He turns to me and gestures toward the door. “Right this way,” he tells me and soon I’m in the back of his squad car.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if either of them had been hurt,” says Arthur. “You don’t have to worry about the bank, Mr. Walker. I can probably tell you that everybody there’s been telling the exact same story. You’re a hero. Tell me, was that football kid about to try something?”

I nod. “Yeah, I think he was. He looked like it.”

“Yeah, I got that impression,” says Arthur. “Look, if there’s anything odd about anything that went on, and I’m not saying there was or you’re to blame or anything, but if there was, it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to get a lawyer, okay? You’re not in trouble, as far as I’m aware, but if I were you I wouldn’t say anything without an attorney present. It’ll piss off the sheriff, yeah, and the detectives might get a little irritated, but you should think about it.”

I do.

He’s right, I know it. I wonder what the police know. My guess is that if they don’t know everything already they soon will. The kidnap victims must’ve given them my description. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was an officer over there right now showing them a picture of me right now. The lady in the towel in my apartment might’ve filled out a report too. The clerk at the convenience store? Who knows what he told them? It was probably in his best interest to lie his ass off, especially if he was able to delete the files from the cameras like he said.

So, they have me present at two crime scenes at the very least. The house and the bank. They might also have me at the apartment or the store or both. That’s four crime scenes possible and a grand total of six dead bodies. I should absolutely without question say not another word and get myself the best lawyer a ten-thousand-dollar lottery ticket can buy.

If I do that though, he’ll tell me to shut up and get me out of there, and I’ll probably be able to leave, sure. I bet that lawyer will be able to help me find answers to the questions I’ve got too, but I wonder if he’s got the same resources as law enforcement. Or the inclination to really help me. I mean, a lawyer is supposed to do that, but they don’t have to believe me. I find that right now that’s what I want most.

A lawyer can check my bank account, my record, and my past (all of which I figure is gone now somehow), but it’d take time. He’d have to get permission. The sheriff’s department could do it all in minutes.

And fuck! I didn’t do anything wrong! I tried to help those people in the house. I did help the people in the bank. The goddamn clerk robbed me, and the lady in my apartment? Okay, I got in, yes, but I didn’t break in. My key worked and I left as soon as I saw her. Maybe it was a mistake to think I could try to get into my apartment. Maybe I should've knocked. If it was still my place, it wouldn't have done any harm. So, maybe that was a mistake. It doesn't mean that what I did there was immoral though. I barely even looked at her. I couldn’t tell you how old she was or anything about her figure or even the color of her hair. I saw the vague outlines of a female form swathed in terrycloth and got the fuck out.

I didn’t do anything wrong.

I didn't.

Yeah, I know innocent people sometimes get in trouble. Sometimes they even go to prison but I tell myself that, despite what my life’s like now, it won’t happen to me. The first time things feel like they’re going that way as I talk to them I’ll shut up and demand a lawyer.

So, I decide to tell them everything.