Char­lie stepped out from the tall curb turn­ing his head side­ways to look up the street, the sun warm on the back of his green jacket. The jacket and his World Champs Bulls sweat­shirt were pur­chased at a thrift store, the scuffed black boots he would die in taken mud­died from be­side the wel­come mat of a nearby porch.

The shop win­dows glinted in the sun­light and cars flashed bright as they passed. Peo­ple began to emerge from the build­ing be­hind him. Across the street he ripped the ad­he­sive paper from his jacket and tossed it crum­pled against the con­crete under the win­dow of a bar­ber­shop. He marched up the side­walk with eyes straight ahead.

He slipped into a 7-Eleven and headed to the back with eyes un­stray­ing from the re­frig­er­a­tors there. The at­ten­dant fol­lowed his steady march up and back. At the counter Char­lie’s eyes met the at­ten­dant’s as his left hand mashed onto the smooth sur­face a dol­lar and coins from his pocket while his right gripped the glass. The at­ten­dant gave a nod as he turned, reach­ing into a pants pocket for a lithe brown bag. He slid the cold bot­tle in­side and turned the bag to hide the black scrawl be­hind his thick hand.

Now Charles can’t you stay for din­ner baby? We worry about you. If you ever need any­thing, baby. Any­thing. Let me write down my num­ber again baby.

Out­side in the door­way in the breeze of the store he paused squeez­ing the hard glass cool under the soft paper. Bright cars whizzed by in the street be­yond the shade of the gas sta­tion. The bot­tle­cap crunched softly as he plucked it off with a twist. The first pull was slow and long and his chest grew as if his lungs too were fill­ing with the gold liq­uid. He sur­veyed the cars and cus­tomers walk­ing to and from their cars in the park­ing lot. A dog sat pant­ing under a win­dow ad­ver­tise­ment for a deal on a hot dog and a coke. Char­lie pulled at his hat and took an­other slow sip be­fore step­ping into the mid­day sun.