After-School Walk

Hildred Brasher had not walked home after school in many a year—probably not since his parents had his little sister, Zariah, and even less so when they had his even littler sister, Margaret. Which was a shame, really, because he had once truly and deeply loved these walks. They were just about as peaceful as his chaotic, violent mess of a life could possibly get, although that wasn't saying much.

It wasn't that his parents were helicopter parents or anything of the sort. If anything, it was the precise opposite. They probably gave Hildred a little too much independence at times. But, alas, when one is the child and beneficiary of a feared consigliere in a New York mob, perhaps it's wise to take some caution. Unfortunately, Hildred had no concept of the word. And so, after his father had a "work-related emergency" come up right as he had left the house to pick the kids up from school as always, onward Hildred and his little sisters walked, cordially greeting and smiling at nearly every single stranger they had passed. His father had reasoned that, now that Hildred had just recently turned fifteen, perhaps it would all be okay. Was it the smartest decision to trust him with this matter? Probably not. Even Hildred himself knew that—but it made him happy all the same to know that his father trusted him enough for this.

"Can we stop somewhere to eat?" asked little eight-year-old Zariah. She fidgeted with her hands, which often meant that she was nervous about something, though he couldn't quite place what it could be. "I'm hungry."

"I think Mom and Dad would flip," said Hildred. "You know how they are."

"Why?" said five-year-old Margaret. "It's just food."

"'Cause it ain't safe for us to go anywhere alone. We gotta have a responsible adult with us," he told her. "Or, well, at least that's what they always tell me. I know, it's lame."

"What? Is the food poisoned or somethin'?"

"No, it ain't that." Then he pondered this for a brief moment. It was very, very unlikely, but he couldn't exactly rule it out as a possibility. Nothing was ever truly out of the realm of possibility. He gave a quiet, "Well…" though, thankfully, neither of his sisters seemed to pick up on it.

"I don't like walkin'," said Margaret. "My legs hurt."

At this, he responded only by scooping her up and setting her upon his shoulders. She giggled, kicking her legs. Then, he looked back down at Zariah, who's gaze darted back and forth between whatever it was behind the three of them and the walk ahead of them.

"What's eatin' at you, kiddo?" he asked. "You look like you're lookin' at a ghost or somethin'."

She did not respond for a moment. He was just about to ask again, thinking that perhaps she did not hear him, but before he was even able to get a single word out, she bolted straight ahead.

"What the fuck—?" He was unable to keep the swear in. Immediately, he set Margaret back on the ground before taking her hand as he sprinted after the older girl. "Zariah! Kid! What the hell are you doin'?!"

But, as is the magical way of many children, Zariah did not listen. And so they continued to run as he shouted after her, shoving random bystanders out of their way and making turn after turn, cutting corner after corner. It certainly did not help that Hildred, despite his strength, was not exactly the fastest runner, easily outsped by a mere eight-year-old. He silently cursed his incredibly large size. Still, he was, at the very least, fast enough to keep her within his line of sight, trailing not too far behind her—until they ultimately made it to an empty alleyway. How cliché, he thought.

"For fuck's sake, Zariah," he'd gasped, pausing to catch his breath as they came to a stop. "What the hell's gotten into you, kid? Do you seriously not want to go home that bad? 'Cause if it's that serious to you, then sure, we can stop somewhere to eat if you want! Jesus! Are you alright? What even happened back there, bud?"

She was practically hysterical, trembling and sobbing. If she had been trying to say anything, he simply could not understand her through all her blubbering.

But he certainly understood what it meant when she pointed her little finger to the space behind him.

As previously mentioned, when one is involved in the life of la cosa nostra, it's generally wise to take some caution when you're out and about. Unfortunately, Hildred had never been one to take any caution before in his life—and perhaps that is a reckless quality that his parents had once encouraged a little too much, whether intentional or not. Fortunately, however, this was not his first time dealing with a stalker or two. So when Zariah pointed behind him, he did not even bother to look back. The dim, pellucid silhouette darkening the scene before him was the only confirmation he'd needed—and, in the blink of an eye, he reeled his fist back, turned around, and threw a most vigorous blow.

Hildred, despite only being fifteen, had known just about everything there was to know about street fighting. In terms of the best places on the human body to throw an effective punch, the jaw was usually his favorite. So, that's exactly what he'd done, sending this mysterious creep behind him flying backwards with one swift uppercut. The man's gun clattered to the ground. Before he could even make a move to retrieve it, Hildred approached close, taking it. He stared at it for a brief moment, toying with it in his hands.

"'Kay. Alright. Fair enough reason to run, I guess," he said, the girls cowering behind him. Then, whistling a merry tune to himself, he cocked the pistol, aimed it at the man's right calf, and fired. A quiet yet exuberant chuckle escaped him when he'd heard the man's insolent yelp.

Indeed, Hildred had truly, deeply missed his after-school walks.