A Tap on the Forehead
by Frederick Gero Heimbach I met Jane at Melvin’s by the southern, less inaccessible, end of the lake. Jane called it the “local” grocery, but some customers drive an hour. It’s got one brand of everything and anything that isn’t dry is frozen. Jane had bought the groceries by the time I arrived, six big paper bags, on the assumption I’d show up when I said. Considering the stakes, a safe assumption. “Why are you doing this?” I wanted to know. Her bringing me in was an act of betrayal. “Why are you helping me get to him?” I amended, self-blaming so she would do the same. Jane unsubtly bugged out her eyes and tilted her head toward the greasy clerk behind the counter, head down, phone in hand, his thumb forever swiping upward. Jane scooped three bags into a bosom fighting a multi-decade war against gravity. Not that I’m doing much better. I hefted the rest of the burden, something Swiper over there wasn’t paid to do. Together, we loaded the bags into my pickup. Engine heat from my...
