Tuesday was the day we saw the gun.
It was our second day of work at Mrs. Williams’s house, and we’re sitting in the marginal shade between the houses, leaning up against the chainlink fence, eating our lunch. The shade provides so little relief, but it’s oh, so important. The July sun in Richmond is unrelenting.
The only thing that comes in second to the workcamp shower is the workcamp sandwich. You get either a sparse ham and cheese or a squishy peanut butter and jelly on smooshed white bread. But it’s the best sandwich you’ve ever, or ever will, until the one you have the next day. By lunchtime, you’re so hungry that you’re eyeing up the giant cockroaches.
Our group of teenagers and adults numbers about ten, and at mid-day on Tuesday, we’re still a cheery and energetic group — breaking into song, laughing, and generally enjoying being together and working.
We were also outsiders, loud, noticeable, and, unfortunately, completely unaware. That was about to change.
One of the girls and I grabbed the lunch trash and headed for the dumpster out front. Coming towards us, on his side of the fence, is Mrs. Williams’s neighbor. A guy, probably around 30, staring right at us as we converge. I open my mouth to say “Hi,” but before I get it out, he tugs the front of T-shirt up just far enough to reveal it.
The handle sticking out of the waistband of his shorts.
