The kid had brown eyes. I remember that very clearly, big brown eyes. I remember the look of stark terror in them as I stood there with the heavy-bore revolver pressed to his forehead. He was crying, and I could hear others crying as well. I didn't care though. This kid's mouth was the reason she was dead, and I was one gentle sigh from pulling the trigger and laying him out on the ground next to her.
"Gramps," Doc said quietly. I hated that nickname, which was probably why he took such pleasure in using it all the time. I looked around at him, but he wasn't looking at me. The others were, but there was no condemnation in their eyes, just the same shocked expression of loss that I felt. Doc was looking around at the junktowners. They were gathered in the street around us. Not a one of them looked hostile, like they'd do anything to stop me from ending the boy. Some of them looked as scared as the boy did, but mostly, they just looked tired.
That's what got to me, I think. The fatigued acceptance of horror and loss. They looked at us the same way they'd looked at those hard boys who lay scattered around the street. No one had ever looked at her like that. There'd been fear, but only from those who'd done something to deserve it. As much as the boy had his share of responsibility for her death, he hadn't killed her. He was still just a child.
I lowered the revolver, the rage gone. I suddenly felt as lost and alone as these poor folk looked.
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