Roscoe keeps complaining about his hand falling asleep and I tell him to give me the Glock if he's going to go into dreamland; I don't need him waking up, squeezing a few rounds into me instead of brushing crust from his eyelids.

The lights from street light isn't helping. They should have went off by now. We're sitting in my piece-of-shit Chevy, the kind with the tags shot to hell and the paint decorating the highway, and we're parked on the curb, outside of a small town convenience store.

I see William's silhouette from here. He's been in there for a few minutes and he still hasn't decided if he's going to rob the place or not. I dial his digits into my cell phone to see what's the hold up.

“Why are you taking so long?”

“There's a kid in here, man.”

“Are you kidding me? You can't be serious.”

“No, I can't do it. Tell Bennet I can't do it. He can break my fingers if he wants...but I can't do this.”

“Do you hear what you're saying? Bennet won't break your fingers. He'll kill you and have your wife sold into prostitution. It will be in your best interests to rob the place.”

I hear muttering, sniffling, and an abrupt click. Watching William for the curb, I see him finally go to the front counter. He's waits in line behind a man and his young daughter. Hopefully he won't get too emotional and shoot them all to Hell.

A vibration distracts my ghetto birdwatching. Roscoe's body expands and contracts with every ugly breath. Each new cycle brings about a new thunderous bellow.

“Wake up.” I push Roscoe, jamming my elbow into his side.

That isn't a good idea.

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