The heels belonged to a woman named Bernadette.
She was a sliver of light in an otherwise black state of affairs. Not because she was pretty, because she wasn’t, at least not in a hot-chick sort of way, but because with a simple nod of her head she sent Simon (and his gun) away. Then she hunkered down next to me, took my chin in her hand, and smiled.
“So you’re Tag,” she said. “You, my dear, are causing us a great deal of grief.”
As I looked at her, my lips in the process of forming a rush of thank-yous, her smile faded and, watching it go, I momentarily longed for Simon and his gun. You know where you stand with guns. Everything is clear. There aren’t a lot of questions, like, “have I done something to upset you?” or “is everything alright?” With a gun you just know.
I was at a loss for words, which didn’t appear to be a problem as far as Bernadette was concerned.
“Come along, Tag,” she said as she got to her feet and began walking away.
I, too, got to my feet, dusted off my hands and knees, and adjusted my clothing.
Then, I bolted.