One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 2, page 4

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Bhanar Narak watched the old man with the rifle as the old man stared at Bhanar hiding behind his truck. Was this fat, old guy going to shoot at him, too? Or was he just protecting his home?

Bhanar glanced down the highway, certain that the gunmen would appear any second, guns blazing. They hadn’t finished the job and surely his one rifle shot wouldn’t scare them off forever. Unless they’d somehow remembered that his father lived on Kètnít, not Rívorí, and had gone to shoot at him, instead.

Maybe he could get some cover in this house. This old guy had probably already called the police. Bhanar could just wait it out inside.

The old man’s gun pointed at the night sky. Bhanar figured his reflexes were quick enough to duck if necessary, so he stood up and called out.

“Hello!” Bhanar was less than fluent in Sarıman, but the basics he had down pat.

The wind chilled Bhanar through his thin singlet. He rubbed his right arm with his left hand, his right hand still gripping the rifle.

The old man’s voice filled the desert. “Hello. Are you injured?”

Bhanar scowled. At first, he didn’t understand that last word, but then his brain dredged up the appropriate lesson. He was going to have to get a lot better speaking Sarıman if he wasn’t going to flunk out of college here.

Injured, no. Bhanar grinned. The gunmen had marksmanship so poor it was worthy of Korutuzho.

The old man certainly wasn’t firing his gun at Bhanar, so probably he was just protecting his home. Bhanar began walking up the driveway to the safety of the house, the gravel crunching under his feet.

“No! I am not injured.”

The old man slumped slightly. Bhanar couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed.

The old man shouted, “Drop your gun!”

Bhanar held his rifle tight, but stopped. What had he done wrong? What had he said? He was still eighty yards from the house, still too close to the highway. There was no chance he’d let go of this gun, not with a chance those Zhéporé-spawns might return. Maybe he should just shoot this old man and take his house.

But no. Not when he still had time to legally save himself.

“They shoot at me,” he yelled. “They try to kill me.” He squeezed his left hand into a fist at his side. “You help me.”

“First, drop your gun!”

Always the last word remembered, but always the most important, Bhanar shouted, “Please.”

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