Written by Jenn Haase Vetter
Content Warning: Gun violence.
He did not sprint through the park this time. Embarrassment and dread slowed him now.
To get the photos, Greg had lied to Arman—the cashier he’d casually known for the past
five years. There was shame knocking around in him now, but how could he not have done it?
The beautiful night and the name of his soon-to-be-born child on a pack of photos just behind the
register; to Greg, it felt as if fate had stepped in.
But Maggie wanted nothing to do with his contraband. “It’s a funny coincidence,” she’d
said. “Maybe the universe is telling us ‘August’ is too common now.” She wasn’t willing to look
when he brought them home.
And now, tracing his steps back to the drug store, he wasn’t convinced he had the
temerity to return the pictures. It would be much easier to chuck them and tell Maggie he took
them back. But he couldn’t conjure a believable lie in the face of her scrutiny. It was just too
stupid. What was he going to say to Arman? Once he confessed, how long would it take to slough
off the humiliation so he could return to his neighborhood drugstore? Where was the next nearest
one? Not within walking distance, certainly.
He prayed for a miracle. Perhaps Arman had headed home; instead, he’d find Gilda—the
one who talked too much about her tired feet. Greg would happily endure a story about her gout
right now. But the door slid open, and there he was. Indeed, it didn’t look like he’d moved since
Greg left. Arman met Greg’s wary look with a smile. “Hey, you’re back already.”
The cashier’s warmth relaxed Greg; he felt his neck and jaw unlock. With relief, he
laughed and approached the counter. “Listen, this is super weird, but these aren’t my pictures.”
He slid the envelope across the counter. Arman didn’t immediately respond, so he stammered on.
“I haven’t looked at them. So I hope there’s no harm done.”
The confession did not smother the cashier’s warmth, but he did adopt a sober
expression.
“See the name?” Greg pointed to the envelope. “August Miller will be our baby’s name.
He’s due in a few days. I couldn’t resist.”
“So you thought maybe some magic was happening, and you could see into your son’s
future?” Arman’s face betrayed no mirth. He would not let Greg break eye contact.
Greg responded with a sheepish whisper, “I guess so.”
Arman grinned and let out a great laugh, “Oh man, I love it! I’ve seen your wife in here.
You two are going to make great parents.” He paused and then leaned in, “You wanna take a
peek? You know, just for fun.”
He flushed, feeling something like love for Arman. He made a note to himself that he
needed to ask this guy out for beers. Greg thought of Maggie’s disappointment as she’d sent him
on this task—how she had tried to buoy him with a timid “I love you.” Too chagrined, he hadn’t
responded. But now, his ego and this evening were on the mend.
The thrill of their tiny conspiracy made Greg’s fingers tremble as he pulled out the
photos, and given his state of mind, he wasn’t surprised to see a picture of a small boy. Arman
saw the tot, too, and quipped, “Any resemblance?”
Greg suppressed the urge to recognize the dark curls and the single dimple he’d seen in
his own baby photos. “No. Not really. Could be any kid, right?”
“Right. What’s the next one?”
It was the following picture that froze his blood. He heard Arman gasp. There was
Maggie, his beautiful wife, holding the same child. She smiled at the camera, but her eyes
revealed sorrow. He was overwhelmed with questions. Why? Where is your joy? Look at this
beautiful boy we have! His vision began to blur with tears.
Arman rubbed his forehead and cheeks in distress. “What does this mean?” His voice
caught, and he had to take a breath. “Do you think this is real?”
Speechless, Greg thumbed to the next photo. He heard Arman’s reaction before he could
register what he saw. In front of his home was his wife, holding the same child. But the man with
his arm around Maggie was not Greg. It was Arman pulling Maggie into a tight, protective
embrace, smiling down at the child.
Arman, close to tears, choked out his words, “What the actual fuck? Is this some kind of
sick joke?” His fear was palpable.
Greg’s terror smothered his senses. He could barely make out Arman’s alarming cries of
horror through the ringing in his ears. “What does it mean? Oh God, what have we done?” His
vision narrowed. He couldn’t get enough breath. “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” He needed to get
out. He needed to get back to Maggie.
He tried to leave, but the arrival of someone else stopped his way. Blinded by his need to
undo this night, he didn’t see the man. He only felt something blocking his way. At any other
time, he would have known to stay clear. A man in a mask brandishing a gun is a universal
danger sign. But Greg didn’t see this man. Nor did he hear Arman’s warning cries. Instead, he
threw himself into the man in his blind effort to leave the shop—kept struggling to push by him,
senseless to the emergency. He couldn’t hear Arman begging Greg to listen and do what the man
said. He didn’t feel the man strike him several times with the butt of the gun. It’s possible he
didn’t even realize he’d been shot when he collapsed, half his body out the door, finally, on his
way back to Maggie.
.
Jenn Haase Vetter (rhymes with sassy cheddar) is a teacher and writer living in the Pacific Northwest. Her work has appeared in Masque & Spectacle, For Page and Screen, and Moon City Press.