He sat in his boxers and a plain white t-shirt at his kitchen table, his toes drumming the linoleum floor as he doodled on the notepad. His keys were in the basket on the counter with his wallet and badge. His gun was in the cabinet directly above the counter, safely out of his daughter’s reach but within his own should anything happen. The thought of something happening at home involving his gun sent a chill down Danny’s spine. He worked hard—and so did his wife—so they could afford to live on a decent block, send their daughter to a good school in a city where public schools were hit or miss. Not easy on a cop’s salary. His wife was a teacher, a damn good one, but she got paid a lot less than he did. He looked around their small apartment, listened for the sound of his daughter’s breathing, his wife’s snoring. His wife claimed she never snored but sometimes that was the first sound that welcomed Danny home when he worked the night shift. It used to keep him awake, but now he found it soothing.
