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jacket.
    “Did you set my Amy’s house on fire?” Buck yells at me.
    “What?” My throat tightens.
    “Don’t play dumb with me!” Buck smacks me across the face.
    I hold my stinging cheek. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Tell me the truth or I’ll beat it out of you!” Buck slams a fist into my gut.
    I almost fold in half, trying to suck in air that won’t come. A dry, burning cough tries to escape but it can’t. I try to scramble and get back inside when the man in the overcoat catches my wrist.
    “No you don’t,” he says while wrapping his arms under mine, locking them behind me as if it will make me a better target for Buck.
    “She coulda died!” Buck wails on me again, twice in the stomach, and once in the nose. “Did you do it? Huh? Did you?”
    I taste warm, metallic blood dripping onto my lip. My eyes water too much to see straight. I shake my head. “I didn’t set no fire…”
    The man behind me lets go and I drop to my knees.
    Buck lands another heavy fist into the side of my head.
    My ear burns and my head aches. A foot plants itself into my back and I’m on all fours.
    The rest of the men join in, kicking and stomping.
    “Alright, alright,” Buck says and then the beating stops.
    I hear him lean down near me, breathing heavy, stale breath filling my nostrils.
    “You better be telling the truth, boy. ’Cause if you’re not and I find out, you can expect another visit from me.” He places his hand on the back of my head and gives it a violent shove before he and the others make their way back down the hall toward the steps.
    I lay there, looking at my cigarette mashed into the carpet, ground out in the shuffle. The T.V. continues to blare in the empty apartment. Dizzy, I use the door frame to get to my feet. I slam the door behind me and stumble toward the bathroom where I throw up in the sink.

Are We Strong Enough?
    February 26 th , 9:02 PM
    Vern Salters’ kitchen
    What’s more frightening? Hearing the door lock from the outside, or hearing it lock from within? Melissa’s lined brow, eyes wide with hesitance, suggest she’s rolling that question over in her head.
    She’s worn the frightened animal look since I turned the deadbolt. Maybe she’s still unsettled from our encounter with Willis Freed. It probably doesn’t help that I hurried her inside, looking over my shoulder for danger, real or imagined.
    “I can put some coffee on, if you want,” I say.
    Melissa jumps at the intrusion of my voice. On the opposite side of the chipped laminate table, she considers me with a reserved glance, head bowed an inch or two as though she’s afraid to give me a direct look. “Sure, I’d like that.”
    The narrow kitchen is cramped by most standards. Dark cabinetry closing in from either side adds to the effect. The dinge of yellow and green tile never seemed to match them, but that’s one of the standard, outdated features you get with any crummy first house.
    Standing near the sink, maybe six feet from her, I turn to fill the old-school stainless steel percolator with fresh grounds. The firm pressure of my gun holds fast in my waistband. I slipped it back into place on our way into the house. I’m not ready to stand down yet; my nerves continue to buzz.
    Summers spent camping with my dad nurtured my obsession with readiness. Beyond the preparedness required to rough it, there were nights when my dad would sit near the tent, listening again for the slightest quiver in the brush. Maybe it was only the drunk teenagers we passed down trail that afternoon. Or it could have been a buck on a midnight stroll.
    My young mind imagined the worst. I think Dad’s did too. He lofted the safety of his family above all else. Anyone could see it in the focused scanning of his eyes when he and my mother were about. I guess I inherited his overprotective nature too, except I usually don’t have anyone to keep track of but myself.
    Maybe I’m overcompensating for having someone