The shop's flood light kicks on. Sweat trickling down her scalp, Thea plants her cane and whirls about. It's not him. It's not him. It's not—

Him.

A dozen feet away, Waylon heaves breath after breath. The kempt man she met is gone. Stubble dots his face in dark patches. Smooth, straight hair is now dry and split. His clothes are odd, too. Price tags dangle from the waistband of his jeans and a sizing sticker runs down his chest, peaking out from an equally new, unfastened peacoat.

He stares at her, something behind his eyes. Or nothing? Thea isn't sure. Until the wind shifts: whistling through skeletal trees and stealing her breath, it carries the stench of dying — of death.

Corpse flower.

She dry heaves and coughs and buries her nose in the crook of her elbow. Good god. What did he— what did he do?

He stands there, one hand shoved deep inside a coat pocket. Whatever he grasps within embosses the coat's fabric with sharp curves and awkward points. "You owe me." He says, his voice cold.

Thea hacks and stammers into her elbow. "I— I—"

There's a flurry of noise and motion behind her. Frank pulls her back, placing himself between her and Waylon. "She doesn't owe you a thing. Been through plenty of guys like you before; your little pocket square there making you feel tough?"

Waylon's forearm goes rigid. "It's not for her; or for you."

There's something odd about their conversation: some shared understanding she's outside of. Even then, she cowers behind Frank's bulk as if behind a bulwark under fire. What do I do? Do I run? I could go hide—

Frank wrenches a palm against a fist, cracking his knuckles. "Need your finger so close to the trigger, then? Not that the little thing'd help."

"You're not bullet proof." Waylon says.

"Want to take that bet?"

Thea's heart stops. Bullets? Wait, he has a gun?!

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Everything feels real, all of a sudden. Too close, too clear, too terrifying. Her heart sputters back to life. In moments, its beats thunder inside her head. Why? Is he— is he going to shoot me? Shoot Frank?

The last two thoughts force her gut to churn. Acid crawls up her throat, burning and stripping it raw. I can't let this happen, can I?

Wind whistles and Bamboo stalks at the outskirts of the three's perception. Her fur prickles; her glowing eyes track Waylon's every twitch.

Am I going to let them both die trying to protect me?

Everything kicks off too quick to follow: Bamboo lowers herself, readying to pounce; space tears, warping in between Waylon's feet; Frank charges forward; and Waylon rips a silver revolver from his pocket, leveling it at Frank.

It'll all work out, right? I'll be okay?

Disgust writhes through body and mind. It's as if stomach bile boils up, into her skull. Not disgust at Waylon or Frank or the cat: at herself. That her final act in the world could be naked, uncertain hope. Standing by, wishing for nothing more than 'okay'. Let the world happen; embrace passivity; accept whatever comes.

No.

Not anymore.

She slams her eyes shut and screams. "Stop! All of you, stop!"

It's as if she's cast a spell: wind settles; the writhing, cosmic tear zips closed; and humans and feline alike glare out the corners of their eyes, frozen. Waiting.

Thea gapes at the scene. Did I— was that— no... I smell sin. I can't stop time, too. Can I?

Waylon waves about his revolver, never letting its barrel stray too far from Frank's chest. "Well? Go on: talk your dog down before he's done digging his own grave."

Turns out, no: she can't stop time.

In that moment of distraction, Frank lunges for the scruff of Waylon's shirt. "Why you little—"

Thea lunges, too. "Frank! Just— just stop!"

He grabs a handful of fabric, yanks Waylon into the air, and sends the gun tumbling to the ground. "Stop? What are you talking about? Guy brought a gun and a death wish to your doorstep."

Legs kicking, Waylon scrabbles nails against Frank's hand. He's like a humming bird struggling within a gorilla's grasp.

Thea tugs on Frank's arm. "Stop. Please. This is my problem. Not yours: mine."

Frank darts his eyes to her. She holds his gaze, her face set in stone. A handful of seconds pass. All the while Waylon sputters and struggles to free himself.

With a sigh, Frank kicks the gun off near a far away car husk and lets Waylon drop. "Fine." He glares down at the knelt, gasping man. "Go for that gun: I'll change my mind right quick."

Clawing at his throat, Waylon's voice comes hoarse. "I won't." He says.

"Good." Frank trudges off and plucks a fresh bottle from his case. "All yours."

Thea's stomach squirms at the prompt. Her 'Calm Frank Down' plan went off without a hitch, but now: a bridge. One that almost anyone would have seen a mile away.

Nevertheless, she fumbles her hands over the pommel of her cane. "Uhm— uh— join us for a drink?"

Waylon rolls his eyes up toward her and sucks down another lungful of air. "I don't drink."