The guy with the gun kneels down by me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
His voice is soft and I wonder just how old he is because that cap makes him look impossibly young, but the hands that touch my arms are sure and strong and he has a man’s voice.
“Fine,” I whisper. I don’t trust myself to speak any louder. I’m shaking too hard.
He starts to pick up my groceries that litter the ground like discarded trash. The soda’s all over the place and one of the boxes of rice is soaked through, uncooked noodles are scattered everywhere, there’s a footprint in one of my microwave dinners. s**t. But he picks up what he can, dusts off the salt, and sticks it in his grocery bag that’s sitting on the ground beside him. I don’t even have the energy to stop him.
When all my stuff’s in his bag, he stands u
