Chuy lifts the gun. It’s heavy, solid, real, and he points it at the kneeling man’s head, looks into the man’s eyes and sees the terror as the man begs and pleads for his life. The trigger is heavy, harder to pull than with the gun he found in the brown paper bag. “If you don’t do it,” Forty says, “you’re a punk. A bitch.” Chuy fires. Puts the man’s lights out. It feels good. Chuy Barajos just turned eleven years old.
