In the deadest hours of the night, I've been jarred awake by a single piercing cry, a scream for help so real that it couldn't have been a part of a dream. I've stood naked in the dark, shivering by the cold glass of the bedroom window, looking out and wondering where the sound came from, but seeing only blackness, and hearing nothing but the stillness of the night. There's nothing you can do then, you're helpless. You light up a cigarette with wavering hands, turn on the hall light, the bathroom light, any light you can find, check the locks on your doors, on your windows, listen at the door of your daughter's room for the sound of her light steady breath, then slip back, shivering still, into bed, press up against your woman's back, listen to her sigh, listen to the silence of the night, stare at the black sea of the ceiling, and wonder when the night's going to end.

        The nightmares are supposed to confine themselves to the night, not spill over into the days. But something goes wrong one day, something goes very wrong.

        I'm standing in line at the grocery checkout. My four‑year‑old, Laurie's riding in the cart. The place is buzzing like usual, the monotone of voices mixing with the Muzak and the ringing of cash registers. Laurie's whining, "Daddy, Daddy, can I have some gum, please, please Daddy?," so I reach over and pick out a pack of Juicy Fruit, tear it open, and hand it to her just to keep her quiet.

        There's only one guy in front of us in line. He puts a pack of Oreos down on the conveyer, and that's all. I get busy pulling stuff out of the cart and placing it on the black conveyer. Behind me these crazy old ladies are standing with a cart filled with nothing but cans of cat food, and they're talking about the scandal sheet headlines like they're real. They're talking about three‑headed babies and a girl who supposedly gave birth to a half‑dog, half‑person, and a man who's predicted that the world will end sometime on October 11th when the moon ascends to the house of Virgo, or something like that. I'm not listening to any of it; it's garbage, even if today is the 11th. I'm just shoveling my stuff onto the conveyer when Laurie starts laughing and tugging on my sleeve, saying, "Look, Daddy, look!"

        "What? I'm trying to put these groceries up, can't ya see that?" But then I see something funny's goin' on. The cashier ‑‑ this skinny blonde‑haired girl who looks like she ought to be in school somewhere ‑‑ is standing in front of the opened cash drawer, rubbing her hands together real slow, and she's looking at the guy in front of us with these wide, unblinking eyes.

        "Daaad, look!" Laurie says, pointing. "That man's got a gun!"

         Suddenly, the people behind me shut up, and the man twists around toward us.

        "Isn't it funny, Daddy? Just like TV!"

        All I can see at first is the tip of the gun sticking out of the pocket of his battered black leather jacket. The gun's pointed right at me. My feet and legs are ice. I don't know what to do.

        The man's skin is pale, like raw dough with little beads of sweat running down his cheeks, leaving little wet tracks, and he's got a couple days' growth of stubble, grease in his hair, and these hollow, scared‑looking eyes. He's looking right at me like he knows me, like we were classmates at prep school or something.

        Then he looks at Laurie with those wild eyes, the gun pointed at her now, its dull tip quivering as he says in a low shaky voice, "Shut up, little girl. Just shut up." She starts crying. I should do something, but I don't. The ice has reached up to my throat, choking; it's worked its way up to my tongue, my lips, my eyes.

        The guy turns back around.

        I'm just standing there trying to control it, keep myself from shaking. What kind of man am I, I wonder, standing here helpless while this is going on in front of my eyes? But I'm no hero, never wanted to die young. I've got my girl to think about, my wife.

     I close my eyes and think about the day before, leaning out the window and seeing Laurie playing stick guns with her friends in the courtyard, how they all went "bang bang" at one another and how, when one of the girls fell down and stayed down too long, Laurie got annoyed and shook the girl with her foot, saying, "C'mon, Allie, you can wake up now."

        I open my eyes, need to pay attention, protect my child. The man's teetering from one foot to the other like he has to use the john. "C'mon now," he says to the cashier, I mean business, don't give me no trouble." She doesn't move from where she's standing, just opens a brown paper bag and slowly starts moving handfuls of bills from the till to the bag, but her hands are shaking so bad she has trouble finding the opening. The guy looks behind us real quick, like he's expecting trouble, then reaches over just as quick with his free hand and grabs some bills out of the till and stuffs them into the bag. Then he grabs the bag and runs out of the store with stiff legs.

        Laurie's still crying, and the cashier starts crying now too, and rips off her blue smock, throws it on the counter, and runs away somewhere. I leave the groceries on the conveyer and push the cart and Laurie quickly out of the store.

        Outside there's a light drizzle. Laurie's still crying, protesting: "But Dad, how come we left all our groceries in the store?"

        And I just say, "Be quiet for a little while, baby, okay?"