She kept the key on a string around her neck, along with a crucifix with tiny rubies in the eyes of the Jesus. She ran her finger along the rank of polished gunstocks until she found what she was looking for. “You said the twelve-gauge, right?” “Yes, ma’am,” said Dodge. He had always been formal with Martha, treating her like a woman much older than himself, even though she was only thirty-five. He pulled two cases of OO shotgun shells from his desk and spilled the cartridges out across his blotter. He began filling his pockets with the copper-ended tubes, hearing the faint rattle of the pellets inside. As Martha walked over to him, carrying the heavy shotgun, Dodge noticed that whenever this two-hundred-and-fifty-pound woman moved forward, she seemed to move sideways as well. Dodge had seen the ten-year shelf-life spongy cakes that Martha ate on her coffee breaks every half hour, and did not feel sorry for the woman as much as he felt sorry for her heart. He imagined the two as separate beings, one trapped inside the other.
