Page 9 of Vandal Unbound

I’m about to ask her what she means, but then Chris screams. He’s kicking and scrabbling, his heels floundering on the chipped concrete. But this man has the kind of biceps you’dnever get both your hands around. As he moves, I catch the flash of a gun tucked into the back of his jeans, and suck in a breath.

He might be my savior tonight. But that doesn’t mean he’s my friend. What he represents isn’t anything I want around Elsie. I didn’t fight to get us out of one toxic world to plop us right down into another.

She just turned five, and we had to celebrate it moving into this godforsaken apartment. The birthday banner I picked up at the dollar store still hangs on the wall behind the sofa. My momma sent me the money for some clothing Elsie needed.

It seems so unfair that a kid should be so happy getting clothing basics like a new five-pack of panties and socks for her birthday. One day, I’m gonna have her wake up to the biggest pile of gifts. A bike, maybe. As it was, I picked up a doll and stroller from a local online marketplace for five dollars and cleaned them up while she was sleeping. I managed to get a bag of used clothes for the doll for another three dollars online that required a quick run through the laundry. I made some little clothes hangers from one of the moving boxes and Annie, my boss, gave me one of those small expandable rods so I could put a clothes rail in the bottom of Elsie’s small closet for her doll’s things.

Some days I look in the fridge and pray for a miracle, because while I’m pretty thrifty when it comes to making money stretch, even I can’t face anotherpasta surpriseorspecial soupmade up of whatever is left at the back of the fridge.

And today was one of those days.

When I opened the fridge, I found half a pepper, an onion, and an apple. There was also half a chicken breast left over from dinner last night that Elsie hadn’t eaten. I concluded that it would classify as a stir-fry as long as I tossed it all in a bit of soy sauce.

But, instead, I added rice and turned it into something more curry-like so I could toss in the apple too. Thankfully, Elsie isn’t a picky eater. I don’t know how moms on limited budgets handle kids who have sensory and dietary challenges. It’s hard enough when I could shovel anything between two slices of bread for my daughter.

Behind her is her eye-patch chart. This one is a princess, and she sticks every used eye patch on it to make it look like the skirt of her dress.

One of the things about Elsie’s focal lens cataract that sits slap bang in the middle of her pupil is that it has the power to make the brain start ignoring the information from that eye. So, to keep it healthy, she has to patch it for two hours every day to keep the neural pathway open. At least, I think that’s the technical explanation the specialist gave.

And during that time, she has to do things that force her to use her weak eye to strengthen it so in future she could have surgery if she needs it. Although the doctor said we should wait because the surgery for it has a risk of blindness and the technology for fixing eyes is improving all the time. So we should wait until we know just how much it affects her schooling and whether or not it improves enough for her to drive before we make a call.

He looked at me and told me it would give me a chance to save for the surgery too, which, looking at the state of my fridge, will never happen because if I had money to spare, there’d be more protein in this fridge than half a chicken breast.

“Joe,” Chris shouts out. “Mark.” I’m assuming those are the names of his two crackhead friends. It’s one in the morning, and my little girl should be enjoying a good night’s sleep after a fun day at summer camp rather than sitting terrified by our neighbor.

Which is unfortunate, because Annie, owner of this apartment and the bar where I got a job, is some distant friend of my mother’s goddaughter. Jobs are hard to find when you move around as much as Elsie and I do. Apartments with the kind of flexibility we need, even harder.

But Annie was able to provide both. She offered this place to us without any credit or rental checks. Just took my word we’d be good tenants.

So this trouble with Chris couldn’t have happened at a worse time. I need to make good with the neighbors, not witness one of them getting killed.

“Did he come?” Elsie says, hurrying to me and wrapping her arms around my legs.

I place my hands on her head and run my fingers through her soft light blonde hair.

Her question doesn’t register at first. I’m too focused on the biker outside who looks like he’s about to kill Chris and wondering whether I would call the police to report a murder or help him bury the body.

“What do you mean, ‘did he come’? Chris? He’s been outside the whole time.”

Elsie shakes her head, the brown eyes she inherited from her father so earnest. “No. Vandal. He said he’d help.”

I drop away from the peephole and crouch in front of her, trying to calm my already racing pulse. “You called someone?”

“I called for help.” Elsie wipes tears from beneath her eyes. “He said he’d come.”

“Where do you—?” There is no point asking where a five-year-old finds a burly biker bodyguard from right now. “Never mind.”

I pull her to me and hug her. I hate that this child has rarely known a moment of safety in her short life. Maybe one day she’ll hate me for taking her away from a life she might feel entitled to.Especially when Elsie stands in secondhand sneakers and lives in this small but clean apartment because it’s all I can afford.

And I’ll never ask Elsie’s father for anything, because I don’t want him to ever know where we are.

But what I deeply hope is that someday Elsie understands that I did all this to keep her safe. To keep her away from prison visits and messed up family dynamics. Maybe if she understands all that, she won’t resent missing out on a more financially blessed life.

“Fine,” Chris says. The words are thready because I guess that’s what happens when you’re being choked over a balcony. “I’ll leave her alone.”

“For good. Not just tonight, not when I leave. They’ve got my number now. And I’m not the police. You don’t get to present your fucking case to a jury. I’ll kill you next time. Understood?”

A dark stain blooms on the denim near Chris’s crotch. I’m not sure if this classifies as a teachable moment, but maybe he’ll understand what it feels like to be terrorized by someone else.