Even with my savior on top of me, muffling the noise, protecting me from the needles and splintered wood that rained down on us, I could tell that it had been the unmistakable blast of a .22. That’s what happens when you hang around gun nuts like Genevieve. We lay there, the two of us, cold pebbles digging into my cheek as we waited breathlessly for a follow-up. I could hardly breathe under his weight. The smells of pine sap and dirt filled my nose and I calculated that between this and the black water that had splashed on me from the gutter, my outfit was ruined. “Stay down,” he ordered with clear-cut authority. His massive hand missed my nose by an inch as he hoisted himself off me. My chest ached, I realized, from being squished. He crouched, unsure, listening. I rolled over and lay on my side, looking up at the trees under the streetlights, large snowflakes seemingly increasing in size the closer they got. I thought, My ass Debbie was killed by an allergic reaction. This is what Jeffrey Andre was talking about when he said he hoped there would be no more, how you say, killings.
