Sam

“Paper or plastic, Mr. Fredrick?” Sam asked as she began to scan the assorted groceries.

“Paper, please,” said the town priest—an older fellow with graying hair who still retained a solid build.

Sam pulled out two paper bags and packed away the items. Mr. Fredrick went to pay, struggling with hands rendered shaky by age to get his card into the reader.

“Actually, you can just beep the card if you want—it might be simpler that way. Yeah, just place it against the top there.” She motioned to the boxy machine, and Mr. Fredrick tapped his card against various parts of it, frowning, until the thing eventually let out a happy chirp. “There you go!” Sam said with a broad smile. “Convenient, huh?”

Mr. Fredrick shook his head, but gave a rueful smile of his own. “How’s an old fellow like me meant to keep up with all this technology, huh?”

“Want me to help you get those to the car?” Sam asked as the old priest reached for his bags.

“Oh, you’re too sweet, but I couldn’t possibly…”

“It’s all good! I’m getting off my shift now, so I’ll be heading out the door in a minute anyway. Really, it’s no trouble.”

“I appreciate it, hon, but I’m not as weak as all that, you know.”

“Oh, I know that, sir. I’ve seen your deadlifts. Pumping the lord’s iron.”

Mr. Fredrick chuckled, picking up his things. “I think that counts as blasphemy, but I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it.” Heading for the door of the small, starkly lit bodega, he called over his shoulder: “Be seeing you!”

Sam waited a few minutes for her coworker to come in so she could hand off the counter, then went into the changing room to toss her name plate in a locker and slip on her running shoes. She headed for home at a brisk half-jog, meeting only a few runners and dog-walkers on the way. The town was sleepy even at its busiest, and it was getting dark, meaning most had already wrapped up their business for the day.

Today was Friday, meaning she was due a visit to the cemetery on the way.

But before she could make it there, she spotted something on the other side of the street. Mr. Fredrick stood there at the mouth of a side street nestled between two multi-story tenement buildings. He had let his grocery bags drop to the sidewalk, and he was speaking closely with a man Sam did not recognize.

There wasn’t anything overtly strange about it, but it just looked… off. Sam checked her left and right, then swiveled to cut across the road at a quick trot, weaving between cars parked on either side to approach the two men.

“Everything all right, Mr. Fredrick?” Sam asked as she reached them, keeping her tone light. “Is this a friend of yours?”

“We’re friends, aren’t we, Mr. Fredrick?” the man said, something mocking in his tone. He had an arm slung over Mr. Fredrick’s shoulders, glancing between Sam and the priest.

“Yes,” Mr. Fredrick said, sounding tired.

The man nodded. “There you have it. Now, we’re just catching up, so if you wouldn’t mind…?”

Sam put her hands on her hips. “I don’t believe you.”

“The fuck?” The man let his head fall back and groaned dramatically, staring up at an overcast sky. “Why’ve you got to make this so hard? Run along already. You don’t wanna get involved in this, I promise.”

“I’m already involved.”

“Whatever.” The man took a step back from Mr. Fredrick, revealing the knife he had been holding to the priest’s ribs. He waved the flashy bit of metal in Sam’s direction. “In that case, you can both empty your pockets. And unlike grandpa here, I won’t believe you don’t have a smartphone, so don’t even try that.”

“Do as he says, girl,” Mr. Fredrick muttered, eyeing a milk carton that lay overturned on the pavement. “He’s got a knife. This isn’t a game.”

The man pointed the weapon lazily at Mr. Fredrick without looking his way. “See? Listen to your elders. A little generosity goes a long way toward minimizing the number of holes I put in you.”

“I’m not giving you a thing. But if you walk away now, I’ll let you.” Sam took a step toward him, and he backed away warily, keeping the knife between them. “Were you seriously planning to rob a sixty-year-old priest? C’mon, man. Have a little self-respect.”

The mugger scowled at Mr. Fredrick, looking him up and down. “He’s sixty?”

“Doesn’t look a day over fifty, does he? He looks after himself pretty well. We go to the same gym, you know.” Sam kept advancing, and the mugger kept backing away until he hit the wall with a flinch. “So, what’ll it be?”

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“Fuck—”

Sam suckerpunched him in the mouth before he finished whatever he was going to say, snapping his head back against the wooden facade. She could tell by his tone that that wouldn’t have gone anywhere. While he was still reeling in shock, she grasped his wrist and upper arm and twisted until she had his face pressed against the building, the knife coming free of his stick-straight fingers. She kicked the weapon over to Mr. Fredrick, who picked it up and blinked at the thing, dumbstruck.

She kept the mugger like that while Mr. Fredrick used his old flip phone to call the police. It took the man a minute to realize he was actually a fair bit stronger than Sam, and he eventually managed to wriggle free and scamper off down the street. Whatever. It was a small town—someone would catch up to him soon enough, and Mr. Fredrick had given a good description since he’d been staring at the guy while giving it to the operator.

“That was reckless,” Mr. Fredrick said with an admonishing shake of his head when she wandered over. “But… thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Eh, it’s no trouble.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s never any trouble.”

Mr. Fredrick folded the mugger’s knife into his back pocket in case the police needed it later, then bent down to pick up his bags. Sam got there first, snatching them away. “I’ll have to insist on carrying these for you now. You’ve been through a traumatic event, you know.”

Mr. Fredrick muttered what sounded an awful lot like a curse under his breath—scandalous; what would Jesus think?—and said: “What about you, then?”

“You kidding? Getting to punch some weirdo was the highlight of my day.”

She wasn’t lying. The adrenaline rushing through her veins was making her feel all hot and giddy. It had been risky, of course. There had been a moment when she stepped into the mugger’s range where he might easily have cut her open like a Christmas ham, if he had been a little bit more on the ball. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her jaw.

“You’re a pretty strange girl, you know that?” the priest said as he fell in step beside her, turning their steps toward Mr. Fredrick’s home.

“Yeah, I know.”

“In a good way, I think. Mostly.”

Sam flashed him a grin. “Thanks! I think so too.”

“Well, if you insist on lugging this stuff all the way to my door, then I have to insist that you stay for dinner. The missus will be happy for the company.”

“I’d never turn down a free meal. Food is my religion. No offense. I'm sure your fella is nice too.”

An hour later, Sam found herself sitting with Mr. and Mrs. Fredrick in their cozy little kitchen, scarfing down a big plate of spaghetti bolognese. She was almost always hungry.

The priest’s stocky, white-haired wife hardly touched her own food, staring at the spaghetti vanishing into Sam's mouth like she was watching a magic trick. “Will that be enough protein for you, dear?” she asked uncertainly after some time. “I know you sporty types need a lot of that.”

Sam mopped up pasta sauce off her plate with a heel of bread, stuffed it in her mouth, and covered her lower face with a hand while she chewed forcibly, jaws working. After swallowing, she said: “This is perfect, Mrs. Fredrick, thank you. Protein is good, but you need a lot of carbs to keep your energy up, too.”

“That’s good to hear. Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you.”

“I mean...”

Sam was properly full after two servings, patting her belly contentedly. Mrs. Fredrick insisted on cleaning the cut one of the mugger’s teeth had left on Sam’s knuckle, and after that they sat around the table chatting for a while.

“You know, I’m sure they’re just rumors,” Mrs. Fredrick said after some time, “but I feel that I have to ask you about some… worrying things I’ve been hearing.”

“Shoot,” Sam said with a nod.

“Margaret,” Mr. Fredrick said warningly, but the woman shot him a withering glare in return, then went on acting as though he had never spoken.

“I’ve heard that you take part in these… street fights, or whatever they call them. That you fight people for money. But that’s not true, right?”

Sam smiled. “Oh, sure it is! Yeah, I have a match every other month or so. You can come watch if you want.”

The old couple shared a concerned look between them. Mrs. Fredrick appeared to weigh her words before speaking, placing an aged hand on Sam’s. “Dear, I know money can be hard to come by, but you really shouldn’t let unscrupulous people take advantage of you like that. I’m sure Tom could get you a few shifts at the cemetery if you'd like. Couldn’t you, dear?”

“Of course,” Mr. Fredrick said, nodding gravely. “It’s not glamorous work, and the pay is what it is, but between that and your other job, I’m sure you wouldn’t need to turn to… other places anymore.”

Sam knew it was probably rude, but she couldn’t help but grin at these poor people’s concern. It was very cute. “I don’t do it for the money,” she said. “Hell, they barely pay me anyway, since I always lose.”

Mr. Fredrick blinked. “Then, why…?”

Sam’s smile slipped a hair. She wished she had a satisfying answer to that herself. Finally, she said: “I like the challenge. Besides, I think it’s fun.”

They let the topic drop. She could tell they thought she was insane. Maybe she was.

When Mrs. Fredrick bustled off to clean the table and soak the dishes, the priest leaned close and said: “Maggie doesn’t like what you do.” He glanced up at his wife, making sure she was out of earshot, then back at Sam. “I reckon I don’t, either. But between you and me, I’ll say a prayer that you’ll win the next one.” He winked.

Sam grinned. “Thanks!”

I’m going to need it.

By the time she took leave of the Fredricks, it was properly dark outside, but she stopped by the cemetery anyway. She went to her mother’s grave first, speaking a few well-worn words. Then she went and sat cross-legged in the grass in front of Will’s, turning on a little electric lantern she had left there ages ago. She also took out an old packet of cigarettes and a plastic lighter that she had stashed inside the lantern’s glass paneling. Extracting one cigarette, she lit it and left it smoldering on the gravestone.

“Hey,” Sam said; legs drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. “Sorry for being late. Stuff happened. I’m here now, though. I don’t know if you remember me telling you last week, but I have a fight in a couple days. Wish me luck, okay? Eleventh time’s going to be the ticket, I think.”

The mossy stone offered no reply. A small cylinder of ash dropped off the cigarette and dissolved as it was carried away on the breeze.

Sam sighed into the silence. She wasn’t sure how the absence of something could feel heavy, but it did. It weighed her down like a bag of bricks. “I miss you,” she said, forcing a smile. “A whole lot. Even though you could be such a little shit sometimes.” Then, after a while, she added: “Oh! I saved someone from getting mugged today. Kind of made me feel like a hero for a minute. So that was pretty cool.”

The gravestone remained unimpressed.

Sam sat there at the grave until the cigarette burned down to the filter and fizzled out. Then she sat there a while longer.

For some reason, she got this strange feeling of being watched, the hairs on her arms prickling. She dismissed it almost immediately. Just dreaming up ghosts in the night, probably. Only, she’d never been afraid of the dark. Weird.