The old woman, Mrs. Ross; the kid in the hoodie with an arm off; the doughy man in the business suit: it was the same three, every day. The security door kept them out, but the closed garden gate kept them nearby, trapped, between her and the car and safety.
There had been six, but cops had shot three of them on the first day, in passing. Had they known she was there they might have shot them all, come in, rescued her, but she hadn’t been able to get the window open in time to call out for help.
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