“He never wears that,” I tell her.
“Why does he have it with him now?”
She asks him.
Mickey slaps shut the suitcase,
but not before I see
the hint of
dull
black
metal
tucked into the corner.
“Don’t leave him alone,” I tell Krista.
“He’s got a gun.”
She steps back,
fear in her eyes.
“Is it loaded?” she asks him.
He stares at her,
making the connection.
“Not yet.”
She snatches the dry towel splayed across the bed.
“Turn around. Both of you.”
I watch him instead of her,
count the ribs showing
through his skin
when he changes his own shirt.
“Now what?”
Krista’s stuffing her wet bra
into the front pocket of her jeans.
Mickey’s shirt is huge on her
but not huge enough
to hide her curves.