It was robbing season where I worked. Although I didn’t know why, it seemed to me an observable fact that the warmth of summer somehow thawed the laziness in low-level criminals. Cops patrolled more often, ramdom beatings became more frequent, and stick-up men looked for anything that shined with a focus that would be inspiring if it was directed at a book.
The newborn looked like a mutant raisin. That was all Kathy could think about as she stared her niece in the face. The pale thing lay on her sister-in-law’s chest and looked back at Kathy with black dots that couldn’t see more than a foot away. She was wrinkled, with facial features that Kathy couldn’t describe other than to say that they were there. Her nose was there; her ears were there; her mouth was there. They were all there, but they were as shapeless as a dream. The only thing Kathy could say for certain was that the wrinkles in the baby’s skin made her look like a raisin that had been exposed to some transfiguring chemical out of a comic book.
He never imagined that bare knuckles could do so much damage. Peter had watched enough TV shows and actions movies to have an idea of what a strong punch could do – while channel surfing he once ran into a mixed martial arts match and saw the busted lip and shut left eye of a man with a name he couldn’t pronounce. What he was looking at now though, was something else entirely. It was Karen who had been hit. It was him who hit her. There was no plastic screen or suited announcer to separate him from the blood and violence.