understood then, but the words had stayed with them.
"Their trajectory was determined by the person who threw them away. They had no chance, these babies. You two, on the other hand, have a chance. Not by accident, your tragic trajectories intersected with mine; especially yours, Homer. Yours was a divine trajectory. You were reinvented by a bullet fired from an indifferent man.
"Do you ever wonder why people fire their guns into the air? Why not at the ground or at a tree or into the water? Why into the air? Could it be that they're challenging God? Don't they realize that these bullets they fire towards the heavens, eventually lose power and fall back to the earth? More importantly, and here's the best question of them all—is God as indifferent as these men? These are all questions you will ask yourself over the years. These are all questions that must be answered. Let these be your driving force, powering you through life as God's chosen low men. But to fully understand, you need to pay attention and look past the obvious."
And then Hemingway saw him.
A boy and his mother walked beneath the sign and paused before a store window. The boy couldn’t have been more than five years old. With black hair, dirty brown skin and wide brown eyes, he seemed like any other underprivileged Mexican kid. He held his mother’s hand while she stared longingly at a red dress in the window of an upscale clothing store, out of place in the low-income streets of Rampart. The boy wore a yellow shirt, which had captured the residue of more than one meal. He wore blue shorts and black Nike flip-flops.
Do you see him?
“I hate this part.”
Do you see him or don’t you?
“All I see is a boy and his mother,” murmured Hemingway.
Yes. I feel it. That’s him. Homer squeezed his friend’s wrist. Remember. This is God’s will and we're his low men.
"I don't like it."
"We're saving the kid. We're designing a better future for him.
"I still don’t have to like it."
No you don’t. Then after a moment he added, but you still have to do it.
"Fine," moaned Hemingway. "How long do we have?"
Only a few more seconds.
Homer heard a cheer erupt from a nearby radio. A Mexican announcer screamed the word Goal, his excitement drawing the word out endlessly. A dozen voices joined in as they shouted their joy. Mexico had defeated Costa Rico in soccer. From far off, he heard a series of gunshots.
Hemingway had been so busy watching the men in the barbershop he'd almost missed the signal. The men had suddenly leapt to their feet and had begun to embrace each other in the oddest way, he couldn't have helped but stare.
Now! came Homer's command. Do it now!
Hemingway glanced once at his blind friend, then returned his attention to the boy. From his position twenty feet down the sidewalk, he could make out the disinterest in the boy's eyes. The way the kid shuffled his feet, it was clear he'd like to be anywhere but out with his mom window-shopping.
If he only knew.
Hemingway surged into motion, waving his arms wildly, attempting to gain the boy's attention.
Hurry.
The boy glanced in his direction, and then looked away. But his curiosity got the better of him. He looked again. This time, Hemingway shuffled several feet closer and was waving one hand in greeting, trying to show the boy how friendly he was. When the boy regarded him, Hemingway smiled hugely. He waggled his finger for the boy to come closer. The boy glanced up at his mother who was still entranced by what she saw in the window. The boy seemed to make a decision, then, and let go of his mother's hand. He smiled timidly.
Hurry. Faster.
Hemingway motioned for the boy to come closer with both of his hands. The child took one step. Two steps. Then he turned back to his mother.
God but you must hurry.
Hemingway felt desperate. Things were happening too slowly.
Then Homer heard the approaching car, the screech of its failing brakes, then the clamorous sound of it crashing through the parking meter as it leapt the curb.
When the boy saw the car, he fell back several more feet as he tried to get out of the vehicle's centrifugal trajectory. His mouth shot slack as the Caprice struck his mother square in the back, carrying her through the window and into the red dress on display. When the car finally stopped, only the rear bumper was