three young men, shouting obscenities. He ignores them and comes straight up to us.
“My partner and I are going to need you to make a statement,” he says. “About the man who assaulted you.”
Armand puts his arm loosely around my waist. “Where is he? Did he get away?”
“The suspect is contained,” the cop answers in a clipped voice. “My partner is with him.”
One of the angry onlookers pipes up at that. “The suspect is dead!” he shouts. “Cops just go around shooting anyone they want!”
“Typical day in Chicago!” one of his friends yells out.
I stiffen with shock, and I feel all four of my friends react. “He’s dead?” Armand demands. “For real?”
The officer’s face takes on an even deeper scowl. “Paramedics are on the way,” is all he says.
“Yeah, paramedics are gonna help when he’s already bled out all over the sidewalk!” one of the protesters calls. “You killed that sucker! I got it all on my phone!”
I feel a strangled cry escape my lips, and then I turn in Armand’s arms, hiding my face against his chest. I clutch folds of his shirt in my fists and press them against my mouth, trying to conceal the fact that I’m crying, but everyone can tell anyway. I hear the policeman saying, “Ma’am—ma’am—please—” I can feel Lili’s hands patting at my shoulders while she murmurs that everything will be all right, really it will. Sanjay says, “I’d like to see this dead body,” and Juwan answers, “So would I,” so then the cop moves to head them off.
All this time, I’m sobbing. All this time, Armand is cradling me against him, kissing the top of my head. “It’s over,” he whispers. “Finally. This time. It’s over.”
It’s maybe five minutes before I gather the strength to lift my head, and he kisses me gently on the mouth. “It’s over,” he repeats.
“No,” I say, and I think that, even through my tears, my smile must be radiant. “My life. This time it’s just beginning.”
MR. POSITIVE, THE ETERNAL OPTIMIST
LARRY CORREIA
“Here, just take my money. I don’t want to die!”
“Well, good,” the man pointing the pistol at him said, “because I don’t want to kill you.”
“Okay.” Stanley handed over his wallet.
“Thank you.” The mugger opened it and scanned the driver’s license as if to confirm something. Satisfied, he looked back at Stanley and smiled. “I still need to shoot you in the heart though.”
“Wait . . . what?” Stanley hoped that he’d heard wrong, and that he would just take the money and leave him alone. “But if you shoot me in the heart, I’ll die.”
“Not if I do it just right.” The mugger squinted as he aimed the little black gun. “So you need to quit shaking so much. Really, you’re making this quite difficult for me.”
Stanley looked around, desperate, but there weren’t any witnesses. The two of them were the only people in the parking lot. The one single time in all the years he’d worked at this office building that it wasn’t stupid crowded and lousy with traffic was when a nutjob came out of nowhere and stuck a gun in his face.
The thing was, his assailant didn’t really look like a nutjob at all. He was dressed the same as Stanley was, khakis and a button-down shirt, the uniform of boring business casual. While Stanley was short, pudgy, balding, and generally dumpy looking, the mugger was an average height, physically fit, well-groomed and clean-cut, fortysomething. He wasn’t a crazy-eyed hobo or posturing teenage gangster, and Stanley had been robbed by both of those before because he was sort of a magnet for attracting assholes, but this guy seemed normal and rational. Like he shopped at Target.
“Just be cool, man.” Stanley had to think back to all the previous times he’d been mugged, threatened, beaten up, bullied, pushed around, or otherwise victimized in his life, and . . . wow—there were a bunch—but calling on his copious experience, Stanley tried to calmly talk him down. “I don’t want any trouble. You don’t want to shoot me.”