Free Something for Nothing by David Anthony

bed, though, it was a different story: there were at least half a dozen guns. He plopped belly down onto the carpet (it was an ugly olive green, but recently vacuumed) for a closer look. There were a range of shotguns, from a little .28 gauge up to a couple of .12-gauge guns. The rifle was a .30-06, he was pretty sure. There was a mediumsize pistol that said Colt on the side and that he thought was a .38—he was almost positive. There was another gun that was in a little yellow-and-black box labeled TP -70. It also said “.22 cal.” Martin took it out of the box. It was flat and light and small. The handle was black, andthe barrel was a gray metal. He liked it. He saw that there was a little clip that you inserted into the handle, and that there were bullets in it. They were small, like baby bullets.
    Jeez, he thought. He knew that Hal Weaver was a big hunter—did the whole duck-hunting thing out in the delta, got in some deer hunting on his property on Mount Diablo. Martin had even traded with Hal, salmon for duck. But it was pretty weird to put your guns under your bed. Not to mention stupid and unsafe—especially loaded guns. What were the odds that the kids didn’t know they were here, within easy reach? Martin thought he wouldn’t be surprised to hear someday that one of the Weaver kids had been killed in a home shooting, or at least in a hunting accident. It happened all the time. He was about to put the pistol back into the box, but then he thought better of it. Instead, after checking to make sure the safety was on (it was), he put the pistol into the front pocket of his pants. Then he put the lid back onto the box and set it back in the spot where he’d found it, up against the wall and in between two of the shotguns. Yes, it was stealing, but that’s what you got for having a loaded gun in your house, Hal.
    He was just climbing to his feet when he heard the front door open. Open, then close. Then he heard the rapid click-click of shoes on the entry hallway tile (women’s shoes) and then coming down the hall, toward the bedroom, toward him. No hesitation, no trip to the kitchen for a glass of water or a Coke (he was suddenly thirsty). Did Miriam somehow know he was here? Was she marching back to confront him? He looked at himself in the mirror of the bureau as he stood there, still stooped over. He looked like a cartoon version of himself, eyes bulging and white with terror.
    He had just enough time to crouch behind the bed and then lie down on his right side. If she came to her side of the bed, which was on the far side of the room, the farthest from the doorway, she’d see him. He wasn’t sure, but she might even be able to see him in the mirror. That, he thought, would be doubly terrifying. But of course it didn’t matter if she saw him in the mirror or straight on. Either way, she’dbe completely horrified. He could imagine her scream, and her terrorstricken look when he sat up and faced her, sheepish, hands up and telling her it was all right, he could explain (“I lost something,” he’d say). He could also imagine himself from her perspective, lying there next to her bed, panicked-looking—not a robber or a rapist (the obvious first choices), but a freak. What the fuck are you doing in my house? she’d be justified in asking. He wouldn’t have an answer for her, though, because he didn’t have one for himself.
    But she didn’t come around to his side of the bed (or her side, depending on how you thought about it—it was more hers than his, after all). Instead, he heard her walk right into the bathroom, adjust her clothing somehow, sit down, and then pee. He could hear the urine stream down and hit the water, and then he heard her sigh. She kept peeing for a long stretch of seconds, and he realized that she’d been rushing to get inside and use the toilet. Had barely made it from the car, from the sound of it. Linda