When I open the front door, I’m immediately greeted by a person’s back as if he was standing right in front of the door, swiftly turning around. It’s a middle-aged man with dark brown skin and short black hair, with a leather shoulder holster wrapped around his white tee shirt and filled with handguns. I suck in an inhale, shocked to nearly collide with an armed man. I don’t know why I’m shocked. Cash told me exactly what or who was out here. Being confronted with the reality that I need armed protection makes me slightly sick to my stomach.
