He stared at the floor, a million unasked questions gnawing at him, but there was something in her voice that told him it was no use. She wasn’t going to budge.
“I’m really sorry.”
Now he was the one searching for the right words. Michelle was his first girlfriend, and that was his first time getting dumped. The best he could do was, “Bye, Michelle.”
He turned and saw Phil there again, same pose, same frown. “Dude, I kind of think you should maybe see about chipping in for the rent. And maybe the phone bill, too. You think you can handle that?”
“Yeah, totally,” he said, “I mean, not yet. I have to wait until I can get a job or something.”
“Well, my friend says they’re hiring at Doggie Burgers down the street.”
Trevor swallowed a cringe. Not his idea of a good job. “That’d be great.”
IT TURNED OUT, Doggie Burger was happy to hire him as a “food storage consultant,” basically a gopher who would load and unload the truck and perform other menial duties. His first day started out as a drag. He carried several racks of bread inside until his back smarted from the lifting. All the while, he remembered what his dad would tell him when his work habits slagged off. “You think I’m working you hard? Wait till the real world gets a hold of you.”
He hobbled to the break room, eager to take a seat and let his body relax.
But a voice from behind stopped him before he got there. “Hey! The break room is for the kitchen staff only!”
He turned, seeing a girl roughly his age, her stern face slowly melting into a smile. “Just kidding.”
They stood there face to face as if they were both waiting to speak but too shy to do it. “This your first day?” she asked.
He nodded. “And you?”
“I’m an old pro here. Been around for two months. And by the way, I was kidding about the break room, but not really kidding.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they really don’t want anybody but kitchen staff in the break room, but I’ll look the other way.”
“Thanks.”
They stepped into the room, took a seat next to each other. “I’m Trevor, by the way.”
“Hi, Trevor. I’m Jessica. Everybody calls me Jess.”
AS THEY APPROACHED the street right across the shop, Hatfield tensed up, sensing their leisurely stroll was a little too easy. As if they were being set up for a trap of some sort. This just seemed too good to be true.
But as they neared Temperton Street, things were no longer good.
A chorus of loud voices shot through the air. Cackles, shouts, victorious howls. The Hatfield family froze in place when they spotted the source: a gang of young thugs—teens, twenties—were gathered in a circle over something, hard to say what at first. The family took cover behind an abandoned car.
Hatfield scanned the faces of his wife and kids. Gigantic eyes and heavy breath. He’d never seen them this full of terror. Jess turned, shrugged, wordlessly asking, “What do we do now?” He had no answer, but he’d need one soon.
“Hey!” A gangbanger shouted. “Check it out, behind that car!”
Hatfield heard his daughter swallow hard. He comforted her with a hand on her shoulder, but that wouldn’t be enough. With as little noise as possible, he reached for his holster, pulled his Sig Sauer free. This made all of their already-widened eyes wider.
He waited for cocky footsteps to come their way, not immediately knowing how he’d react. He had no plan, and he now needed to construct one. There were at least five of them, none of them armed as far as he could tell. If he were wrong about that, he’d have a problem—unless he used the element of surprise to his advantage.
But it turned out the footsteps were moving in the wrong direction. Hatfield lifted his head just enough to see the gang moving to another car. When they got there, the family heard the horrified screams of a middle-aged man.
Hand over her stretched-open mouth, Tami’s eyes watered. Jess swallowed her in a hug.
Jess, Justin, and Tami could only hear the man’s nightmare unfold, their vision masked by the car. But Hatfield saw everything, every swing of every metal bar as their victim squirmed on the asphalt, jerking in convulsion.
He gave his wife’s shoulder a tap, then mouthed the words “on three,” then did the same for Justin and Tami. Full of adrenaline, they crouched by the edge of the car, waiting. As he carefully eyed the beating, he held up a single finger, then two, then three.
The Hatfields sprinted across, arms flailing, breath labored, steps clumsy but fast.
As Jess, Justin, and Tami reached the bush beside the storage garage and ducked behind it, Hatfield—gun still out—stopped. He’d noticed the gang didn’t hear them, too immersed in their raucous beat-down, swinging, kicking, ripping through the man’s body.
His family emerged from the bushes, frantically waving him over, but he couldn’t stop staring. He had the element of surprise on his side. He could probably take out most of them—maybe all. But it was risky. Too risky.
After speeding across Temperton Street, he joined his family in the bushes, sharing a group hug, then—after checking the gang once again—he led them around the corner to the storage garage.
As quickly and quietly as possible, he fished through his backpack until he found his keys, then unlocked and opened the garage door.
The rusty door surrendered a long creak when opened. Halfway up, he slowed the motion down, hoping to reduce the noise. But that only dragged the creak into a longer sound. There was no way to do this silently, so he shoved the door open as quickly as possible, then urged his family inside with fast waves.
They scampered toward the Hummer, following him, then settled into the seats, the closest they’d come to comfort in hours. But the battle wasn’t over yet. He had to make sure it could still start after all that time.
“Let’s bow our heads, please,” he said, leading them with his closed eyes and taking his wife’s hand. After reciting a favorite bible verse from Psalms, he shoved the key into the ignition and waited.
The car filled with gasps of relief when the engine roared to life. With a smirk on her face, Jess said, “Good thing my daddy wasn’t around to hear that.”
The couple shared a laugh. Jess’s father—an ordained minister—had always taught his family to pray after a moment of gratitude, in thanks rather than a request. As they left the garage, he said, “I figured, on a day like today, we’d need one before and one after. We’ll wait till we arrive in one piece to give thanks.”
As he stepped on the gas, shrieks of panic came from the other three. He’d nearly slammed into four or five gangbangers who had raced toward the garage, crowbars poised. He stomped on the brakes just in time to avoid a collision, but more screams followed as they scrambled forward and grappled at everything within their reach and tried to claw inside. They groped at the hood, the doors, windows.
Hatfield stepped on the gas again, shoving a body from his hood to the street below as the others were stranded in the garage.
He was doing at least fifty now as they bolted away, but even at that speed, they got a tour of the carnage left on Temperton Street, all seemingly victims of the gang. As he watched the lifeless bodies recede into the distance, guilt gripped his body. He hated knowing he could have helped that man but hadn’t. Ordinarily, he would be comfortable helping people, putting himself at risk to help others—even a stranger. But in this case, it wasn’t just about his own safety. His family needed him. A grim reality hit him. He’d have to put his family first above others. And if that meant letting strangers fall to harm, so be it.
Jess took his hand without a word. He turned and saw her head bowed and eyes shut. Somehow she knew it was time for another prayer.