Page 91 of Everything Under the Sun

My body shook; I wondered how long I could hold the gun before I dropped it, or accidentally pulled the trigger.

The sound of Atticus’ fists pounding the man’s face reverberated all around me; it was becoming more of a distraction than the woman. Images of the brute, beaten to a bloody, unrecognizable pulp before he was shoved out an eight-story window, assailed my memory.

“Atticus stop,” I said, quietly at first, because I wasn’t yet aware of the volume of my own voice. “Atticus…” I raised it just a little.

“He’s going to kill him!” cried the woman, looking to me for help.

“Atticus, stop!” My voice was much louder this time, enough that Atticus should have heard me, but he was lost in his rage. “ATTICUS! I SAID STOP!” My voice quaked and roared.

He stopped.

I never realized I’d dropped the gun at my side, and for a second I thought to raise it on Atticus instead, but I didn’t.

“We didn’t come to hurt nobody,” the woman pleaded, hands out in front of her. “We just needed your stuff. Please let my husband go, please let my Billy up; he’s all I got in the world.”

My eyes darted between them.

Atticus pushed himself up and moved away from the man, stamping back in my direction, picking up his knife on the way. He wouldn’t look at me as he passed.

The woman rushed to her husband’s side, sinking to her knees next to him where she touched his bloodied mouth; she propped her arm behind his back, and with her aid he stumbled to his feet.

“We’re sorry,” the woman said.

With the man’s arm secured over the back of her shoulder, they went to leave, the man limping through the dried leaves.

“Wait,” I called out.

I shoved my gun in the back of my pants just like I’d seen Atticus do many times, and I strode over to the horses.

“Thais, what are you doing?” Atticus came toward me.

I put my hand up and he stopped.

Then I went back to digging inside the bag affixed to my horse, retrieving the aluminum foil pouch with bread. I went past Atticus, ignoring him—I had to, otherwise that glaring look of disapproval he was giving me might’ve weakened my resolve.

“Take this and go.” I held the bread out to the couple.

“Thais,” Atticus growled under his breath as he came up behind me. “We can barely feed ourselves.”

I turned brashly to face him, my hair whipping around my head. “They’re hungry, Atticus,” I snapped. “We have a little more for ourselves. Not to mention”—I looked at the gun in his hand—“we also have the means to hunt more food—they don’t.” It was as much a demand as it was a plea.

Atticus stood back, giving me what I wanted, although I knew that he vehemently disagreed with my decision.

I turned back to the couple, putting the bread into their view and urged them to take it. “Please,” I said. “We’re all hungry, but if we continue to rob and kill each other over a few scraps of food, then there won’t be anyone left.” I stepped closer.

Still unsure, the couple kept glancing at the towering threat near me.

“Take it,” I insisted.

I glanced over to see Atticus shaking his head, figuratively throwing his hands in the air; then he turned and left us standing there.

“Thank you,” the woman said. “Thank you.”

I watched them go. I was glad I did what I did, but I was equally worried about the repercussions from my older, much, much taller, not to mention bigger in every imaginable way, traveling companion.

Atticus sat down on his quilt, legs drawn up and fallen open, back hunched over, arms propped on his knees at the forearms. He just looked at me as I moved through the darkness toward my own cot.

“They were just hungry,” I said.

---