When Fernando Morales finds his 17-year-old nephew Carlos in a dress, he decides his brother Juan, the boy’s father, must be told. Juan immediately disowns Carlos and kicks him out of the house, just weeks before high school graduation. Carlos hitchhikes to LA where he lives on the street for a year before getting into a women’s shelter as “Carmen.” Eleven years later, Carmen is summoned back to Buttonwillow by Juan and Fernando’s mother (“Abuela”), because Juan has had a stroke and is in a coma.

Over the course of several weeks, Carmen makes four trips to Buttonwillow, and is appointed as a temporary conservator for Juan. Meanwhile, she reconnects with family and other people she grew up with, including her brother Joaquim (“Ximo”) and her cousins Kelsey and Inés (“Innie”).

Kelsey had been living with Dace Gutierrez, the older brother of Carmen’s first crush, Diego. The relationship is both physically and emotionally abusive, but despite Dace putting her in the hospital, Kelsey goes back to him. When Diego returns to Buttonwillow to get his belongings, he finds Kelsey unconscious and overdosed on fentanyl, and calls an ambulance.

Kelsey recovers in the hospital. She tells Carmen and Innie that she tried to kill herself after Dace left her, but she refuses to be interviewed by the police concerning the illegal drugs that Dace had purchased. Carmen goes to the prison where Fernando is incarcerated and convinces him to talk to Kelsey. In the meantime, Dace slashes the tires on Carmen’s car and attempts to find her at the motel where she has stayed while in Buttonwillow. To keep safe until Dace is captured, Carmen and Ximo stay at a hotel in Bakersfield. Innie stays at a friend’s apartment, leaving the bedroom in her parents’ house to Kelsey.

For a refresher on Carmen’s family tree, see this post.

Chapter 29: Dappled Sunlight

Ximo looked tired and filthy. “I’ll come with you, ’mana,” he groaned. “But I’ve got to have a shower first. If that cochino shows up before I’m out, you’ll just have to beat him with pillows or something.”

I smiled encouragingly. “I’ve got my Ruger back, so I can do better than that. Take your time, bro. I’ll be out front.”

His tired nod was all the answer I got before he went inside.

I lowered myself down and sat on the concrete of the front stoop. It had been in the shade now for a couple of hours, but astonishingly, it still felt warm to the touch. Doesn’t matter. Still better than smelling padre’s old cigarettes.

I felt as tired as Ximo looked. Probably nowhere near as tired physically, but I was emotionally wrung out. Between Innie and Kelsey, Uncle Fernando and padre, I’d had a month of stress crammed into ten hours and I was cooked. Stick a fork in. All that.

But there was something strangely peaceful about sitting on this particular slab of concrete. It was familiar, for sure – I’d sat here many, many times. Generally in the evening, when it was a place of shade and relative coolness, often quieter and less stressful than whatever was going on indoors. The occasional car rumbled past, seldom in any kind of hurry. I could hear grasshoppers in the distance – almost ubiquitous at this time of year – and the song of a starling, not far off. Every so often, a Steller’s jay scolded with its harsh “shook, shook, shook!”

I leaned back against the house, bringing my right leg up to cup my knee with both hands, my fingers lacing together. Before I knew it I was blinking heavily, with each effort to raise my eyelids seeming to require more and more energy. I’ll just rest for a minute.

Ximo shook me awake. “Aren’t you supposed to be standing guard or something?”

I looked up at him groggily. “Oops.”

He stepped down off the stoop and offered me a hand, which I took gratefully and used to get back on my feet.

“Are you sure you’re good to drive?”

Stifling a yawn, I said, “I’ll be okay.”

“Uh huh.” He gave me a skeptical look. “Why don’t you take a quick shower before we go? It sure helped me.”

“Sorry, ’mano. Those nicotine-infested towels make me want to hurl. I’ll be alright – it’s just a half hour to the hotel.”

“Seriously – you look like you’re going to fall over. Let me take you in the truck; we can put your car in the garage and pick it up tomorrow morning.”

Stubbornly, I shook my head. “I’ve got shit to do in Bakersfield tomorrow morning, and you’re not going to want to be my chauffeur. I’ll be fine.”

“Can’t be that bad. What’ve you got?”

“The two officers from the sheriff’s office who’re on Dace’s case offered to take me to a firing range tomorrow.”

He looked suspicious. “Free time? From cops?”

“I think I just caught a lucky break. They both had a training sergeant they really respected, and he had a trans daughter. Kind of a pay-it-forward thing, I guess.”

“Yeah, okay. You say so. But anyway, that’s just one thing.”

I nodded. “I promised Abuela I’d fill her in on padre’s stuff before I go home. She might visit him later in the morning.”

He scratched his head, then said, “Tell you what. Why don’t I drive you back here first thing and you can catch Abuela at home. Then you can drive out to meet your new buddies in blue.”

“Khaki.”

He rolled his eyes.

I decided I was too tired to fight him, so I put the Kia in the garage and he locked up. Then I climbed into the passenger seat of his truck and he headed to the city. I felt the need to sleep like a physical force, pushing against the back of my skull. I made it . . . but no lie, I was glad Ximo was driving.

I became vaguely aware that the truck had stopped and Ximo was saying something. I tried to focus on it.

“¡Mierda!” His voice seemed to come from a distance. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”

I opened my eyes – when had I closed my eyes? – and didn’t see much. It took a moment to figure out the reason, which had to do with my forehead resting on the top of the dashboard. “Eat?”

“Yeah. You know, food?” His voice was right by my ear.

I honestly couldn’t remember when I’d eaten. I had a roll from the hotel before Innie picked me up, but I’d gone straight from Mercy Hospital to the Sheriff’s Office, then to the prison, then back to Mercy, then ubered out to St. Mary’s where padre was . . . .

Nope. No food. But . . . “Sorry, Ximo. I just gotta crash.”

He shook his head. “You need something to eat first, I don’t care what it is. Look, there’s a Carl’s Jr. right there.” Without waiting for an answer, he drove across the parking lot, got into the line at the drive-through, and ordered something. He didn’t bother asking what I wanted.

Just as well. I was too spaced out to notice.

Fifteen minutes later, we were parked back at the hotel and he was at my door before I even got a chance to open it. Why is everything taking me so long?

With surprising tenderness, he lowered me down from the cab of his truck, and kept me steady while he grabbed his overnight bag and the drinks. Taking all my concentration, I managed to hold on to the bag of food. Somehow, we got everything up to our hotel room.

He pointed sternly to the chair and set out a burger, fries and medium Coke on the small table next to it.

I’d been too tired to feel hungry, but when I sat and took a bite – just a couple of fries to start – my body’s response told me Ximo had been right on the money. I went from zero to famished in nothing flat, and just like that a double queso crunch burger was the most amazing thing I’d ever tasted.

Wisely, he left me alone until I’d finished everything. “Need more fries? I’ve still got some.”

I shook my head, feeling bloated . . . but a thousand times better. “No more! But thanks.”

“You’ll live?”

“Now, I might even want to.”

“Man, I thought my day was for shit.” He sat on the bed. “Want to tell me about it?’

“Let me take a quick shower first – now that I can stand.”

Between the food and the shower, I was feeling human again by the time I came back out of the bathroom, dressed for bed in a pair of light cotton pajamas.

Ximo was sitting up in his bed checking something on his phone, stripped down to shorts and a tank-top Tee. He gave me a disturbingly close look, then nodded sharply. “Good. I was getting worried about you.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” I sat on the other bed, but faced him. “Tough day, you know?”

“Kinda figured. So what’s the tea? What happened with Kels?”

No way to sugarcoat it. “She tried to commit suicide after Dace left her. She thought she was taking sleeping pills.”

“Fuck.” He looked like he might be physically ill.

“I know, right? Anyhow . . . she didn’t want to get Dace in trouble by telling the police where the fentanyl came from, so I went out to Taft and talked Uncle Fernando into helping convince her.”

“They let him out?”

“They brought him to the hospital, then took him back. Anyhow, TL;DR – Kels confirmed that Dace bought the fentanyl. They discharged her, and she’s staying with Uncle Augui and tia Consola. Innie’s staying at some friend’s place.” Except right now. The thought bubbled up, unasked for and unwanted. Right now, Innie’s off on a date. With Diego Gutierrez.

“Kels and tia Consola?” Ximo shook his head. “Wow, that’ll be fun.”

I shrugged. “She didn’t have a lot of options. Anyhow . . . after all that, I went to see padre, and we had a pretty big breakthrough – he was able to open and close his eyes when I asked him to. He did it for one of the doctors, too.”

Ximo exhaled loudly. “So you were right – he can hear people. But man . . . it’s bad, when ‘he was able to open his eyes’ is a big breakthrough. Know what I’m sayin’?”

I grimaced. “Yeah, I know. I guess after a month, I’ve gotten my expectations down so low that anything seems like a big breakthrough.”

He was about to respond when he stopped himself. “Oh – almost forgot. Your phone was going off while you were in the shower. By the time I found it in your purse, it’d gone to voicemail.”

I got up and went to the counter, where Ximo had thoughtfully plugged my phone in to recharge. “Kasparian? Huh. I wonder what’s up?” I shot my brother a look. “Do you mind if I call him back? It might be important.”

“Go ahead,” he invited.

“Hey, Carmen!” Kasparian’s voice was warm, and he picked up right away.

“Hi, Andar. What’s up?”

“You were going to tell me how your plan worked out. Did your father’s boss agree not to fight the comp claim?”

My mind whirled into a chaotic reverse; it felt like our lunch, and my trip out to Kern Cotton, had taken place a month earlier. I had to remind myself that it had only been yesterday – and that I’d promised to tell him how things went. “I’m really sorry – things got insane yesterday. But Mr. Cavallaro was great. He agreed not to fight the comp claim, and didn’t even require a written release.”

“Score one for cunning,” he said approvingly. “That’s got to be a huge relief.”

“Oh, it is . . . it just kinda got lost in all the crazy.”

Somehow, Andar got me talking. It was a bit of a relief, really. By virtue of his investigation for the probate court, he had a pretty good understanding of some of the personalities in my family, but he had an outsider’s objectivity that I lacked. I ended up telling him more about the last day than I’d intended.

When he’d teased the story out of me, he said, “I’m sorry, Carmen. I did lean on your Uncle Fernando pretty hard. I had the strong sense he was lying when he said he had no information on any missing relations. I really wish, though, that I’d been able to just give you that email address.”

“Yeah, me too,” I sighed. “But honestly, the problems between Kelsey and her papí go back a lot longer. He loved her, for sure, but I think he was always comparing her to her mom.”

“And she didn’t measure up?”

I snorted. “According to my mother, Kelsey’s mom was the greatest person on the planet and the most amazing woman since, like, Joan of Arc. Who could live up to that? And what’s worse is, she got seriously ill when she was pregnant with Kels, and died a year later.”

“Ouch,” he said sympathetically. “Do you think Kelsey will be okay?”

“I sure hope so. If Dace actually stays away, I think she will be.”

“I’m glad. Very glad.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Hey . . . while we’re on the subject of your family?”

“Seems like I always am, these days,” I sighed.

He chuckled. “I feel your pain. Anyway, Sherilynn Novak just happened to bump into me on my way out the door Friday, real casual-like. Too casual, if you know what I mean.”

I felt like I’d heard the name before, but my mind drew a blank. “Who?”

“The paralegal who acted as notary for your brother. She was wondering if I knew anything about him.”

“Really?” I managed – only just in time! – to stop myself from looking over at Ximo.

“Oh, yes. I think he made an impression. But of course, I had nothing useful to tell her; I only met him once.”

I felt my mood lighten considerably. “Hmmm. Do you think a phone call might get an answer?”

“Maybe. If he strikes while the iron is hot.”

“I will pass that tidbit along, then.”

We talked for a couple minutes more, then he asked when I would be in town next.

“I’ve got a special project at work that’ll keep me in the OC for the next two weeks. But I should be back after that to wrap up my time as conservator.”

“Can I talk you into dinner the next time you’re up?”

Dinner???

His voice was casual. Friendly.

“Umm . . . sure. That would be great.” Experience suggested that I add the caution, “so long as I’m not running around putting out fires!”

He laughed easily and said, “That does seem to be your lot in life. Well, keep me posted, and I’ll hope to see you in a couple weeks.”

We ended the call and I stared at the phone for a moment, puzzled. Dinner?

Ximo was watching me, a distinctive grin on his face.

“What?”

“He asked you out, didn’t he?”

“Well, I mean . . . just dinner. No biggie.”

“Uh huh.” His grin got wider. “Nice convo you had, too.”

“Ximo!”

He dropped the grin and looked serious. “He’s a good wey, Carmen. I could see that, when he met us at the hearing. Don’t just blow him off.”

“I’m not blowing him off,” I protested. “But . . . .” I stopped, and tried to think of a good way to end that sentence. My thoughts were spinning somewhere between ‘no way is he interested in me’ and ‘I do not want to get involved with someone from frickin’ Kern.’ I knew Ximo wouldn’t believe the first thing, and might be hurt by the second. Sorry, ’mano. I am NOT staying around here!

My evident confusion brought the smile back to his face. “But whatever.” He slid under the sheet on his bed and shut off the little light attached to the headboard. “’Night, Carmen.”

“Ximo?” I said sweetly.

He let out an exaggerated snore, then said, “I’m sleeping.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“I can snore louder.”

“Sure, but then you won’t hear what Kasparian said about Sherilynn Novak, the perky paralegal who left you gasping for air.”

His eyes popped open. “What???”

I smiled. “Good night, Ximo.”

“Go ahead. Sleep.” He grinned evilly. “That’s when I’ll start tickling you!”

I giggled, cheered for his sake. “She wanted to know about you, ’mano. God knows why.”

He sat up. “Wait, what? ¡No manches!”

“Might not want to wait too long, though. You’d be easy to forget.”

“If you’re shittin’ me about this, I’ll put ants in your underwear. Maybe wasps!”

“Oh, and I’d get a haircut, too, if I were you.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“And lose the mustache.”

“You are a complete and total–”

“Older sister.”

“Yeah. That.”

I didn’t have any more tea to spill, and after a while he had to give up. I shut off my light and tried to get comfortable. Tired as I was, it took me a long time to get to sleep. What was Andar thinking? What was I thinking?

Dinner?

Really?

~o~O~o~

Ximo dropped me off early, just like he’d promised, and waited until I’d driven my Kia away before leaving. I drove the couple of blocks to Abuela’s house, and walked briskly up to the front door. After ringing and waiting a moment, I let myself in.

Abuela was in the living room, sitting in a straight-backed chair, the sun streaming in behind her. Mercifully Gaby wasn’t around.

“You’ve been busy,” she commented after we’d exchanged greetings. We spoke in Spanish when we were alone, though I was a bit embarrassed to find that I was a little rusty. There were words and expressions I used everyday, but I fumbled with phrases which would have been second nature a decade earlier.

I chuckled. “What’s the gossip?”

“That Kelsey’s played the tonta. Again.”

I bristled. “Not the first person to fall for the wrong wey.”

“No-one bothers to learn from other people’s mistakes,” she observed caustically. “But most people at least manage not to repeat their own.”

“She said she lived with you, after her papí lost his house and went to prison.”

“For a while. But she preferred to live with a man. Any man.”

Abuela’s words, and even more, her dismissive tone, were irritating. I thought of tough-girl Kelsey in her hospital bed, trying to hide how much family meant to her. “It sounds like you gave up on her.”

Abuela shook her head sharply. “I don’t give up on family. Never. That doesn’t mean I don’t know who they are.”

“Who is Kelsey, then?” I challenged.

She chuckled dryly. “No. You’re old enough to make your own decision about that.”

“I expect I’d be more charitable!”

“Maybe you would.” To my surprise, she sounded skeptical . . . but she decided not to push. “Enough. Tell me what’s going on with Juan.”

Her skepticism made me uncomfortable— like she could see me better than I saw myself. With a pang, I remembered just how certain I’d been that Kels would go back to Dace. ‘That cochino gives a whistle, and she’ll crawl over broken glass to go back,’ I’d told Ximo. Not exactly a charitable view of my cousin!

Rather than wrestle with my guilty conscience, I was only too willing to follow Abuela’s lead and talk about padre’s situation. I gave her the full update on where things stood with his finances, the workers’ comp claim, and the insurance issues. She absorbed it all with few questions, though the ones she had were pointed.

It occurred to me as I was wrapping up my explanation of the insurance application that Abuela might have some information on one of the remaining mysteries concerning padre’s finances. So I told her about how he refinanced his house and pulled out a bunch of money. “I can’t find out what happened to it. Do you have any idea?”

She became very still, and her voice was low. Almost deadly. “How much money?”

“About a hundred fifty thousand, near as I can tell.”

“When?”

“Five years back. Summer of ’19.”

She bent her head, saying nothing.

“Abuela?”

She didn’t respond.

“Abuela . . . I have to know.”

“Why?” she rasped.

“If padre squirreled it away somewhere, it could mess up his application for state aid.”

I could see the muscles of her jaw clench, but she stayed silent. Finally, as I was about to prod her again, she whispered a rare curse. “¡Maldito seas, Fernando!”

Aha! Sounds like Kelsey was right. “You think padre was somehow caught up in the fallout from Uncle Fernando robbing that bank?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. But Fernando came to me, after he’d been so loco — so wrong! — and asked if he could borrow a huge amount of money. Suggested I do some stupid thing to reverse my mortgage or something. Said he needed the money to pay back the bank he’d robbed. It had only been a week, but he said the money was already gone.”

She paused as if reliving the moment, then shook her head, still disgusted. “I said no. That was his debt to pay. No-one else’s.”

“Except it sounds like padre did.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice.

“I didn’t think Fernando would drag Juan into it . . . or that Juan would be foolish enough to go along.” She brooded a moment. “I should have known better. Fernando could always talk Juan into anything.”

“It might not have been too hard, if that’s what happened,” I said, turning the situation over in my mind. “If Uncle Fernando hadn’t made the full restitution, his sentence would have been longer. I mean, alot longer. Padre might not have been willing to see that happen.”

“He should have said ‘no.’”

I was silent. I could understand how she felt about Uncle Fernando – hell, I felt the same! But if Ximo came to me in that kind of desperation, I couldn’t imagine turning him away – no matter what he’d done.

She correctly interpreted my silence. “You think I’m too harsh?”

“Nooo,” I said, dragging the word out like a dead raccoon. “I just don’t know if I could have done it.”

“Try raising five children. At some point, you learn that the most effective discipline is to let them face the consequences of stupid decisions.”

“That sounds like a good rule for chavos – they do stupid things for stupid reasons. Adults, there’s usually an explanation, even if you don’t like it. Why did Uncle Fernando rob a bank?”

“Some deal he put together fell apart.” She waved a hand dismissively. “The details don’t matter. Fernando was always trying to do clever things with money.”

She didn’t have any more information that was helpful, and I had finished catching her up on the state of play with padre’s health and finances. We talked for a bit longer before I left, promising to return in two weeks.

I’d need to have real confirmation about where padre’s money had gone, though Abuela’s story convinced me that Kelsey’s guess was almost certainly right. “Almost certainly” wouldn’t cut it with any sort of government program, of course. I had some ideas on how to go about that . . . including ones that didn’t depend on Uncle Fernando telling me the truth about what had happened. All things considered, I wasn’t sure I was up to dealing with him again.

~o~O~o~

Ang Cooper drew my attention to the target. “You can see it here, Carmen. This is your first shot – and again, it was your best. Each following shot goes a little bit higher, and by your fifth, you’re up in head shot range.”

I nodded. “And that’s from the wrist?”

“Right. It’s an issue for a lot of women – they take too much of the recoil in their wrists. You need to keep strong wrists, the whole time. Your posture is good, so you can absorb that recoil with your whole body. Let it do the work.”

“Got it.”

Brian Braddock gave me an encouraging smile. “Want to go one more round, before we try the sim?”

“Absolutely!” I was finding target practice to be a disturbingly therapeutic way of working off the frustrations brought on by my morning discussion with Abuela.

I was trying to think of the officers as Ang and Brian – they’d asked me to use first names, since they weren’t ‘on the clock’ and this was being done purely as a favor. But it was hard. When you meet someone in a uniform, it’s hard to think of them as a regular person.

They’d both been very insistent that I join them out at the range. Ang told me she’d been impressed by how I’d managed the situation with Dace the night they arrested him, and wanted me to develop those skills rather than walking away from them. “Especially now,” she said, nodding emphatically.

I knew she was right. They both were. With Dace on the loose and looking to cause trouble, I needed to be armed and mentally capable of defending myself. So I put my ear protectors back on and set the goggles in place before going back inside.

Once a lane was open, I got myself ready. I verified that the Ruger was empty, then set the weapon and my five rounds on the shelf in front of me.

The RO called out, “Load and lock.”

I methodically slid each round into place in the cylinder and snapped it shut.

“Ready on the Right. Ready on the Left. Ready on the Firing Line.”

I took a deep breath and steadied myself. Strong wrist!

“Standby!”

I got in the ready position and waited for the buzzer. When it went off, I extended my arms and commenced rapid-firing all five shots, keeping myself mindful of my wrists the whole time. When I was finished I went back to ready and waited while the others finished.

After the RO gave the unload and show clear command and I’d complied, I rejoined my friendly sheriffs outside. Both of them had big smiles. Although they were out of uniform, both wore T-shirts with the Kern County Sheriff’s logo on them. Kinda like gang colors, I thought irreverently. When you’re part of a brotherhood, you’ve got to advertise it.

“Nice shooting,” Brian enthused.

Ang nodded. “You looked a lot better. How did it feel?”

“Definitely an improvement – I just assumed the wrist pain was part of the experience!”

Brian started leading us to the other section of the building. “Okay, so, none of the hand guns they use in the sim are a good match for your Ruger, I’m afraid. Longer barrels, less ergonomic grips, and – most important – heavier. But don’t worry too much about that. This isn’t about target shooting, it’s about judgment under time pressure.”

Brian had booked an hour of sim time, and he’d timed it so the couple who’d had the previous spot were just dropping off their gear as we arrived.

The guy in charge of the sim looked like he was either retired military or retired police. Probably both. Crew-cut silver-gray hair, icy eyes, a strong jaw and posture a drill instructor would envy. He had a quick and pointed discussion with Brian and Ang, then came over and briefed me on how the system worked before getting me a modified handgun, a holster belt, and headphones. He took me inside the sim room and then returned to the command booth to run the sim.

About thirty by thirty square with high-ceilings, the room housed five large screens set side-by-side in a hexagonal formation with one side open, providing 300-degree visuals. There were projectors for every screen, as well as a whole bunch of sensors that would track both me and my “shots.”

The instructor’s gravelly voice came over the headphones. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, instinctively adding the honorific.

“Okay. The first scenario is easy. Just a bunch of boxes with green circles and red x’s. When the buzzer sounds, draw and fire. Your goal is to hit all of the green circles and none of the red x’s. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” I repeated.

I got myself ready. When the buzzer sounded, I quickly unholstered the “handgun,” moved smoothly into a firing position and started going at it. I tried to be mindful of both the weight of the weapon and my wrists.

After what felt like twenty minutes but was probably five, the instructor stopped the sim. “Eighty percent on target, but five percent hits on ‘friendlies.’ Accuracy was better at the start, so you’re tiring as you go. Be sure to stay calm, keep your breathing even, and don’t shoot faster than you can aim.”

We tried again, and my success was better. Then we tried another sim. This one was based on a realistic street scene. My instructions were to shoot if I saw someone with a gun in hand, unless it was a police officer. We ran through that simulation three times, and I was sweating by the end. I’d come close to shooting a guy who was holding some gardening sheers, and in my relief at having stopped in time, I missed the ‘bad guy’ coming from my blind side.

We did an indoor sim that was similar, though the rules were modified somewhat. I felt pretty good when that one was done – like I had the rhythm down, and I was managing to keep calm. Then the instructor pulled up the last scenario.

An alley, at dusk. Poor lighting. At the entrance, maybe forty yards away, a shadow moved, black against the twilight.

I froze.

They were out there. I could hear them, shuffling closer. Padre. The tio’s. Diego and Tomá. The trucker. They were hunting me with hatred in their hearts and machetes in their hands. They wanted revenge. I knew it.

My own heart began to pound against the bars of my rib cage as I looked for a way to escape. Left, right. Doors that weren’t just closed. They were padlocked. Barricaded. There was no way out.

I whimpered, desperate, trying to make myself seem small. Invisible.

The noises grew closer, and in the darkness I could make out a shape. Looming, sinister. Closing in.

I began to hyperventilate, and felt my vision begin to fray. I would die here, and no-one would ever know. Even if the police found my body someday, who would investigate? Who would care? I was just some homeless person. Would have died anyway.

They were coming for me, and I couldn’t stop them. I was tired, hungry, heartsick and filthy . . . but even so, I really didn’t want to die. I wanted to live.

The shadow grew. My right hand scrabbled in the filth, seeking something – anything – to use as a weapon. I palmed a chunk of displaced concrete and closed my hand around it.

He was almost on top of me and I tensed, getting ready to spring forward. To swing my fists, futile as it might be. That’s when I realized that I wasn’t holding a rock.

I had a gun!

I could stop him. I could stop them all! A cold smile frosted my lips, and I extended my arms. . . .

With a sudden, violent motion, I cleared my vision. Once again, the only alley I could see was the one projected on the screens of the simulator, and the sounds of the night were coming from strategically placed Dolby speakers.

This is not real.

The virtual headlights of a passing car lit up the figure at the end of the alley, giving me the information required for a split-second decision: threat or no threat?

Carefully, deliberately, I slowed my breathing, safetied the weapon and returned it to its holster. “Lights, please. End the sim.” Somehow, I managed to keep my voice steady.

The instructor’s voice came through my headset. “Acknowledged. Ending sim.”

The screens went white as the lights came up. I felt a tremor run through my body, like the aftershock of a quake. When it passed, I turned and walked out.

The instructor met me at the door with Brian and Ang. “What happened?”

I found myself surprisingly – almost inhumanly – calm. “The alley scenario triggered a flashback.”

“PTSD?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded. “You seeing someone about that?”

“I did. It’s . . . I guess it was kind of a relapse.”

“Book an appointment, you hear? That shit’s no joke.”

I felt like I ought to salute, but I knew I’d look ridiculous. “Yes, sir.”

To my surprise, he reached up and squeezed my shoulder. “Believe me, you could have done a lot worse. You didn’t go wild and start shooting. But PTSD’s dangerous to you even if you’re not dangerous to others.”

“Yes, sir,” I repeated.

“Go on, now. I’ll take care of putting things away. And . . . Ms. Morales?”

I let my expression ask the question.

He smiled slightly. “Never call an NCO ‘sir.’ I work for a living.”

When we got outside, the two sheriffs guided me to a shady area under a big oak, where someone had placed a picnic table.

“Are you okay?” Brian said, as he sat down next to me.

Ang took the seat across from us.

I nodded. “Oddly enough, I’m better than just ‘okay.’”

Ang looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

I gave them both a sad smile. “You’ve both been very good to me, and I honestly don’t know why. There’s a lot about me you don’t know. Ten years ago, I was living on the street in LA.”

Ang did a double-take. “You’re right – I would never have guessed that.”

Brian just nodded. “And?”

“I got kind of crazy there, toward the end. Before I found a way off the streets. I thought people were coming to get me – to kill me.”

“Because you’re trans?” Brian asked, quietly.

I nodded. “Right. Like I said, crazy. Some nights, I’d swear I could hear them. I kept moving, trying to find a place to sleep where they wouldn’t find me. There was this one night . . . .” I paused, trying to find a way to explain it that didn’t make me sound like I ought to be locked up, but nothing came to me. I plunged on. “I was in an alley, and I thought I heard them coming for me. I got spooked, so I grabbed a rock, charged out swinging, and then ran past the guy who was almost on top of me.”

Ang nodded, understanding. “And that’s what you experienced again, just now? In the alley sim?”

“Only at the start. My memory of that night has always been all confused. Like, my crazy was affecting what I saw, or thought I saw. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve relived it in nightmares. The guy is seven feet tall, with burning red eyes, swinging a machete, you know what I mean? And it was like that this time, but when I realized I had a gun in my hands rather than a rock, I knew he wasn’t the boogeyman. I could finally see through my own madness.”

“What did you see?”

“He was just a guy.” I shrugged. “A street person, like me. Older. Maybe even weaker. That’s who I ran away from. But, Jesus, I must have scared the shit out of him, popping out from behind a dumpster, screaming like an angry cat. If someone had done that to me, I’d have had a heart attack on the spot. He was no demon, but . . . I guess I was.”

Brian said, “I can see why you ended the sim. Wow, that must have been an overload!”

“Looking back, I’m really embarrassed. And ashamed of what I did, you know? Scaring that poor guy like that. But that’s not why I ended it.”

Ang cocked her head to the side. “It was something good, wasn’t it? ’Cuz you look like a weight’s been taken off your shoulders.”

“Yeah. I realized I was finally done with that pinche nightmare. And the scenario . . . Well, let me put it this way.” I smiled broadly. “I’m done walking into dark alleys, too.”

— To be continued

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