Lightning

that appeared to flow liquidly along the street outside, sprayed lava like over the parked Buick and the passing cars. The accompanying thunder shook the building from roof to foundation, as though the stormy heavens were reflected in the land below, precipitating an earthquake.
    "Wow!" Laura said, moving fearlessly toward the windows.
    Though no rain had fallen yet, wind suddenly swept in from the west, harrying leaves and litter before it.
    The man who got out of the decrepit, blue Buick was looking at the sky in astonishment.
    Bolt after bolt of lightning pierced the clouds, seared the air, cast their blazing images in windows and automobile chrome, and with each flash came thunder that struck the day with god-size fists.
    The lightning spooked Bob. When he called to Laura—"Honey, get away from the windows"—she rushed behind the counter and let him put an arm around her, probably more for his comfort than hers.
    The man from the Buick hurried into the store. Looking out at the fulminous sky, he said, "You see that, man? Whew!"
    The thunder faded; silence returned.
    Rain fell. Fat droplets at first struck the windows without much force then came in blinding torrents that blurred the world beyond the small shop.
    The customer turned and smiled. "Some show, huh?"
    Bob started to respond but fell silent when he took a closer look at the man, sensing trouble as a deer might sense a stalking wolf. The guy was wearing scuffed engineer boots, dirty jeans, and a stained windbreaker half zipped over a soiled white T-shirt. His windblown hair was oily, and his face was shaded with beard stubble. He had bloodshot, fevered eyes. A junkie. Approaching the counter, he drew a revolver from his windbreaker, and the gun was no surprise.
    "Gimme what's in the register, asshole."
    "Sure."
    "Make it quick."
    "Just take it easy."
    The junkie licked his pale, cracked lips. "Don't hold out on me, asshole."
    "Okay, okay, sure. You got it," Bob said, trying to push Laura behind him with one hand.
    "Leave the girl so I can see her! I want to
see
her. Now! right now, get her the fuck out from behind you!"
    "Okay, just cool off."
    The guy was strung out as taut as a dead man's grin, and his entire body vibrated visibly. "Right where I can see her. And don't you reach for nothin' but the cash register, don't you go reachin' for no gun, or I'll blow your fuckin' head off."
    "I don't have a gun," Bob assured him. He glanced at the rain-washed windows, hoping that no other customers would arrive while the holdup was in progress. The junkie seemed so unstable that he might shoot anyone who walked through the door.
    Laura tried to ease behind her father, but the junkie said, "Hey, don't move!"
    Bob said, "She's only eight—"
    "She's a bitch, they're all fuckin' bitches no matter how big or little." His shrill voice cracked repeatedly. He sounded even more frightened than Bob was, which scared Bob more than anything else.
    Though he was focused intently on the junkie and the revolver, Bob was also crazily aware that the radio was playing Skeeter Davis singing "The End of the World," which struck him as uncomfortably prophetic. With the excusable superstition of a man being held at gunpoint, he wished fervently that the song would conclude before it magically precipitated the end of his and Laura's world.
    "Here's the money, here's all of it, take it."
    Scooping the cash off the counter and stuffing it into a pocket of his dirty windbreaker, the man said, "You got a storeroom in back?"
    "Why?"
    With one arm the junkie angrily swept the Slim Jims, Life Savers, crackers, and chewing gum off the counter onto the floor. He thrust the gun at Bob. "You got a storeroom, asshole, I know you do. We're gonna go back there in the storeroom."
    Bob's mouth was suddenly dry. "Listen, take the money and go. You got what you want. Just go. Please."
    Grinning, more confident now that he had the money, emboldened by Bob's fear but still visibly trembling, the gunman said, "Don't worry, I ain't gonna kill no one. I'm a lover not a killer. All I want's a piece of that little bitch, and then I'm out of here."
    Bob cursed himself for not having a gun. Laura was clinging to him, trusting in him, but he could do nothing to save her. On the way to the storeroom, he'd lunge at the junkie, try to grab the revolver. He was overweight, out of shape. Unable to move fast enough, he would be shot in the gut and left to die on the floor, while the filthy bastard took Laura into