“Everything in the register, now!”
The voice was loud and gruff, coming from the front of the store at my back.
“Okay, sure, just calm down.” This was the man behind the counter. “It’s all yours, I don’t—”
The explosion of a gunshot rattled the poster and sign-covered windows.
I dropped the cigarettes.
What happened next, happened fast.
I turned as the gunman did. I watched in slow motion as he spun around, long, greasy red hair swinging behind him catching in the hood of his filthy navy sweatshirt, his arm coming up, the gun pointing toward me, smoke still trailing from the barrel.
He squeezed the trigger not once but twice.
My heart burst with pain, a thud stronger than any I had ever felt.
A wetness bloomed on my leg, my thigh, a growing mass of warmth.
The gun clicked.
Twoemptyclicks.
No shot. No bullet. Some kind of misfire.
The gunman frowned at the weapon, nearly threw it at me, then turned back to the register and scooped out the cash, shoving the bills into his pockets. When he got the last of them, he took a step toward me, his eyes wild. “I know what you look like, kid. I never forget a face. You say a fucking word, and I’ll hunt your ass down. I’ll slice you open and hang you from a fucking streetlight.”
A moment later, he was gone and I was alone.
I looked down at my leg. I had wet my pants. I didn’t care.
I stood there. I don’t know how long. I couldn’t move.
Eventually, I found the strength to wander back to Krendal’s and summon help.
August 8, 1986
Ten Years Old
Log 08/08/1986—
Interview with Dr. Helen Durgin. Subject “D” appears agitated.
Audio/video recording.
“I’d like to talk about your parents.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You need to. It’s best we all understand what happened.”
“I don’t remember. I was little then.”
“You remember. I think you remember everything that happened that day.”
Silence.
“It wasn’t your fault, David. You were only two. You couldn’t have known what would happen.”
