As she drove the silver car down the stripe of highway, a roadside sign piqued Rachel's interest: R & G GUN SHOW NEXT RIGHT. Squinting into the bleached sky, she exited the highway then noticed a Panera just ahead. She parked the car, removed a paper napkin from the glove box and blew her nose. She checked herself in the rearview mirror realizing there was no point in applying makeup to her swollen eyes. She grabbed her sunglasses, dabbed her nose again, and got out of the car.

She entered the restaurant and made a quick stop in the restroom. On her way out, she ordered a bowl of soup and a cookie, then with her bagged take-out order, headed for the parking lot.

A man wearing a watch plaid shirt exiting the Panera called, "Emily."

Rachel kept her head down on her way back to the car.

"Em. Hey, Emily."

She heard his footsteps trotting up behind her. "Em," he said as he closed in.

She turned to face a guy in his late twenties with a thick head of wavy, sandy hair, grinning at her. "Oh," he said. "You're way prettier than Emily."

"Thanks, I think," she said, continuing on her way.

"Your hair's just like hers." He followed her. "But your face sure ain't."

"I already said thanks." She crossed her arms. "So now what?"

He anxiously shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his thumb hooked in the front pocket of his jeans, which were too tight to be of any use concealing a weapon. He was harmless. "So... I don't know," he said, working up his best flirtatious grin. "Just wanted to talk. And look at you."

"I gotta get back to work. As one does."

"I'll take the afternoon off. If you maybe wanna go get a drink."

"I don't drink."

"Blessings be upon the virtuous," he said with a smirk. "Or maybe we might get us an ice cream."

"The energy's weird," she said. "I'm gonna go."

His shoulders fell when he sighed. "So, you're gonna swipe left."

"My soups getting cold." When she glanced back over her shoulder, he seemed smaller. She walked to her car and when she took a quick peek, noticed he'd retreated to his.

She started the engine, turned on the air conditioning, and pried the plastic lid off her cardboard bowl of soup. According to the navigation system, the convention center hosting the gun show was only 6.2 miles away. She finished her soup and, as she wheeled out of the parking lot, sampled the chocolate chip cookie.

Not long after, she arrived at the destination and parked her vehicle. The stifling heat pushed its way into her car the second she opened the door. Crossing the asphalt parking lot, she noticed a baked gecko lizard who apparently, misjudged either the temperature or the distance to a shady refuge.

Inside the air-conditioned building, Rachel wandered between rows of folding tables where handguns, rifles, and knives were displayed. Hundreds of vendor and customer voices reverberated in the cavernous open space. A stout man in a camo trucker's cap ogled her as she passed. He pulled a cherry popsicle from his mouth with a slurp and shouted, "It's your lucky day, little lady."

She gave him a sideways glance.

He said, "You look like you could use some luck and I happen to be in the luck business." With his popsicle, he gestured toward his table where rabbit's feet keychains were displayed. A sign that looked as though it were written with marker by a 6-year-old read, LUCKY KEY CHAINS $7.

"You're selling luck?" 

"In a manner of speaking, yeah." The popsicle slipped back into his mouth.

"Good luck with that."

"I got a customer survived a terrible car accident, just bought one of my keychains the day before. That's a true fact. Another dude met his future wife not three days after he bought one of these."

She'd heard enough and turned away.

He raised his voice. "Another customer - woman about your age - hit the lottery. That's the God's honest truth." He plunged the popsicle between his red lips and withdrew it. "These keychains are good luck, guaranteed."

"Not so lucky for the rabbits," she said.

The guy in the next booth hacked out a dry laugh.

Rachel continued on her way past a table where a collection of handmade leather holsters and knife sheaths had attracted a few inquisitive customers.

She stopped at a booth where rows of handguns were displayed. A 40-something woman wearing a name tag that said Lottie, read a Cat Fancy magazine. A red, white, and blue banner mounted to the back wall of her booth read, Defending Your Right to Defend Yourself.

"Got your eye on the nineteen, eh?" she said, locking her fingers together behind her head while easing back in her chair. With her shoulder-length white hair and pink chubby cheeks, she could have been anywhere between 35 to 60 years old.

"I'm told it's a dependable..."

Lottie leaned forward and offered the Glock to Rachel.

Rachel hefted the weapon.

"Can't beat the Glock," she said. "Law enforcement loves 'em. Law-abiding citizens like you and me love 'em. Nice feel in your hand, isn't it?"

Rachel nodded. Then, affecting a southern drawl she said, "How much y'askin'?"

"Five fifty. For five seventy I'll throw in a box of Mags." She gestured toward a box of Magtech 9MM cartridges.

"Any way 'round the three-day waiting period?" Rachel stepped closer, tears in her eyes. "I got a crazy ex that pays no mind to restraining orders. The son-of-a-bitch's hurt me before. Real bad. Been rootin' around my place again, and my l'il one."

Lottie offered sympathetic eyes. "That's a lot."

Rachel wiped her runny nose.

"Piece of paper signed by Christ Almighty don't mean nothing to a whack job," Lottie said, tilting her head up, her eyes meeting Rachel's.

Rachel folded seven, hundred-dollar bills, pressed them into the woman's hand, and asked, "Do I need to register–"

Lottie pocketed the money. "You don't look like a convicted felon to me." She got out of her chair to free the trigger lock from the handgun. "Little piece of advice. If you're not handy with guns, better plan on shooting targets first before you pull this thing on some crazy man."

########

Seated in a window booth at a small, roadside diner, Rachel kept an eye on her car in the parking lot while taking the last forkful of pancakes for a ride through a puddle of syrup. With her eyes and lips puffy from crying, and with the brim of her baseball cap drawn low on her forehead, she'd hoped to avoid attention.

But a man facing her in the next booth wearing a neatly-trimmed goatee, white shirt, and blazer, grinned flirtatiously, leering with shifty eyes. He folded his napkin delicately then sat leaning forward, elbows on the table.

Rachel refused eye contact, in no mood for his shenanigans. She could pick out predators from blocks away: pickpockets, purse-snatchers, street hustlers, found-your-wallet scammers, to name just a few. Unaccompanied women drew them like bees to ginger lilies.

She sensed the predatory vibe he emitted, so to avoid confrontation, she left a twenty-dollar bill on the table and abruptly exited the diner. She got into her car and backed out of the parking space. In her rearview mirror, she watched Goatee Man hurry into a dingy sedan.

"Fuck," she growled.

She hadn't driven more than a few miles down the lonely country road when his car raced up from behind, flashing its headlights. She accelerated.

His sedan's engine strained as it passed, pulling to an abrupt stop in front of Rachel's car, barricading the road.

Her Fusion lurched to a halt. Through the window, she watched him throw open his door then trot to her driver's window.

"Kind of a jackass thing to do." He sighed. "Sorry about that."

She didn't respond.

"Back there at the diner, I was thinking there's no reason why we can't be friends."

"You're right," she said.

He smiled.

"That was a jackass thing to do."

His tone shifted. "Say, whatcha got in the trunk, pumpkin?"

"Nothing." She met his eyes with icy defiance.

"That a fact? Saw you fiddlin' around with something back there. Why don't we have a look-see?" He surveyed the deserted road, drew a tactical knife, and snapped the long blade into position. "Let's go. Open the trunk," he said with menacing eyes.

POP. The trunk sprung open.

The moment he turned his head, BANG, his right knee exploded. He staggered backward, crumpling to the ground howling in agony. With his brain whipped into meringue, his words stuck together, gibberish spilling out of his gaping mouth.

She slipped out of the car, the Glock trained at his head. He cowered on the gravel, his eyes glazed with shock. She smelled the stench of fear-sweat overwhelming his cheap cologne.

"Please. Please," he begged, going pale and wilting like a stalk of celery left out in the sun. "Don't."

Rachel kicked the knife under his sedan, then put a bullet into his front tire. He jumped at the discharge.

"Please. I got kids."

The notion that the repulsive creature writhing on the ground before her was somebody's father, infuriated her, filled her so full of rage, her eyes couldn't hold it all in. Maybe he was lying. She sincerely hoped so.

He clamped his eyes tightly, certain that he'd drawn his final breath.

"Epic fail, pumpkin," she said, getting into her car. She punched the accelerator, leaving him thrashing on the roadside.