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9.

Or how about this: he awakes in that bed on the north side of town and says to himself, Whitney Voss. Those syllables slide into place as he remembers the girl he saw standing by Pump #3 as he was leaving with the money I gave him.

He gets the red parka. The gun.
   
10.

I scrape the Buick's tire sides into the curb and sprint to her doorway.

Rory.

Whitney.

Listen.

But I'm out of breath.

And she waits without feeling infringed upon by this visit from this guy who's not much more than an acquaintance. The day may seem uneventful enough, but she's sensitive. Right away she's able to see we've been joined in the weather of crisis.

Or I take the left onto W's street, and as I do I pass Spencer on the sidewalk, in his parka, on foot.

Rory.

Whitney.

I reach for her hand, close mine around hers. There's no time to explain.

11.

RE: delayed recognition, though: how likely?

I recognized Spencer Bray. That's firm.

Spencer Bray didn't recognize me.

W. Voss did or didn’t recognize him. But if she did, wouldn’t the cops have called here already—if just to have me look at more pictures?

The day is quiet. In the yard, snow is melting away. I'm looking at sopping brown leaves.

Rory? M calls.

Yes.

Rory?

Yes.

Would you take out the trash?

12.

What's likely: W. Voss, at Pump #3, didn't recognize Spencer Bray. It was darker out there, after all.

What's likely: Spencer Bray will forget about us—me and W. Voss. By the time the cops start looking for him—if they do—he won't even remember our faces.

Will the cops catch him?

They could. It's possible.

He could buy everyone tokens at the Southroads Arcade, say it's on the Boone Street Gas 'n Go. He might do that.

We'd be called to testify, me and W. Voss. And then he'd remember. Rory Jeffery, he'd think to himself. Rory Jeffery. Whitney Voss.

And how long could they keep him in custody anyway? He's only sixteen years old.

Concerns of this kind—are they not serious? Do they not compel me to quit typing, right now? To stand from this lightweight office chair? Cross the floor of the walk-in basement?

They do.

Cross the floor. Get my cell phone. Flip up the screen. Press in W's number. Touch the cold glass of the doors as I wait. Examine the tree limbs, the power lines, the tiny sparkling crusts of snow out there by the chain-link fence.

Scott Garson has stories in current or upcoming issues of Quick Fiction, Avery Anthology, New York Tyrant, Sojourn, FRiGG, and others. A collection of shorts, Vercingetorix, is forthcoming from Willows Wept Press. He edits the online journal Wigleaf.

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