Midnight unrolled reams of paper towels, wrapping them around his hand, while Lena dragged two folding chairs into the store for them to sit on. It was obvious life had not been kind to Lena over the years, and she moved like a woman twice her age. She took a long drag on her Newport. Years ago, as soon as Lena turned her back, the kids from school would hold straws between their lips in mockery, blowing fake smoke into the air. Then they’d fake wheeze until they almost passed out. Ruth never joined in, since Lena was a friend to the family, the only one to bring chicken pot pies to the house when Papa got sick. They returned the favor when Lena’s husband, Neil, died young of a massive heart attack on the plant floor, a few years after Papa passed.

Losing their husbands bonded Lena and Mama more than ever. Maybe that was why this store was Ruth’s first stop in town. When she couldn’t talk to Mama, she turned to Lena, who knew how to take care of people, filling all those empty places inside you.

A symphony of jingles, explosions, and moans erupted from Midnight’s phone. After making a dismal show of drying the floor, he’d followed them into the store and sat on the floor hunched over his phone, grunting every few seconds. Lena sighed in that exasperated way parents often do over some annoying habit they’d chided their kids about time after time.

“I can’t believe that boy’s thumbs haven’t fallen off yet. Always playing some game about greed,” Lena said.

“Assassin’s Creed,” Midnight said without looking up from his phone.

“Whatever it is. I tell you, that boy hears everything.”

Ruth lowered her voice and scooted her chair closer to Lena’s. “I found that kid hiding in the back room while you were out. How do you know him?”

Laughter that turned into a deep cough made Lena’s body shake. “You have been gone a long time, dear. That kid is my grandson. Patrick’s a good boy. Smart as a whip. Problem is he knows it. That combination can be trouble if you don’t channel it the right way.”

Lena had two daughters—Hannah, the older one, who was just a couple of years younger than Ruth, and Gloria, who had to be at least six or seven years younger than Ruth.

“Is that Hannah’s son? He was just a toddler when I last saw him. I can’t believe he’s a grown boy now,” she said, shaking her head. “You know, he told me his name was Midnight.”

“These kids and their ridiculous nicknames. But yes, indeed, that’s Hannah’s boy. You know she passed a few years ago, so Patrick lives with me now.”

Mama had told Ruth the sad news, and now Ruth felt guilty about not reaching out to Lena at the time to offer condolences. It seemed she was always guilt-ridden over something. “I heard, and I’m so sorry. I’m glad Midnight has you in his life.”

Ruth glanced at Midnight and noticed his sweatshirt hanging off his shoulders, the red logo having faded to a dull pink. Electrical tape held together the frames of his glasses. In the distance, the screech of a snowblower grew louder, but Midnight stayed intent on his game, his mouth open slightly and his eyes locked on the screen of his phone. Eventually, he walked outside, scooping handfuls of snow and stuffing the snowballs in his sweatshirt pockets.

Now that Midnight was out of earshot, Ruth said, “I know you have that young lady working the register, but you should keep that back door locked, too. It’s not safe for your merchandise or your grandson.”

Lena tapped her cigarette with her index finger until gray ash fell from the bottom. “I don’t pay any mind to robbers. Even with so many folks out of work, I haven’t had a breakin yet. It’s these gangbangers I worry about trying to get their hooks into my grandson.”

When Lena read the skepticism on Ruth’s face, she puffed harder on her Newport. “These thugs don’t discriminate between Black and white. All they care about is green, and they’re coming from the big cities like Chicago over here to do their dirt. No offense or anything.”

She was right. Balloons, stuffed animals, and poster board notes memorialized crime victims on many South and West Side Chicago streets. Yellow crime scene tape roped off manicured lawns on tree-lined blocks. Gang violence had almost become the city’s shadow, walking with its residents everywhere until some grew numb to its existence. Even when they tried to step out of that shadow, it stalked them relentlessly. Ruth and Xavier lived in a zip code close enough to feel the heat from the flame but far enough away not to get burned on the regular.

Amid the threat of violence in the toughest areas, people still worked hard and raised families and launched businesses, and Ruth wanted to paint that picture for Lena to show her how both could be true at the same time. But she’d grown tired of all that obligatory educating. Even if gang violence had sunk its teeth into Ganton, Lena wouldn’t move. Of those who left Ganton, most didn’t come back, but the truth was, most people never left. Lena was born there and would die there.

Neither of them said more on the subject. Sitting in silence for a moment, Ruth watched a wispy cloud rise from Lena’s cigarette.

“Ernestine told me you got married a few years ago,” Lena said.

Ruth looked down at her gloves and rubbed the leather, thinking of Xavier. The way things stood when she’d left for Ganton caused her to seriously question the strength of her marriage. “Yes, I did. My husband had some commitments back in Chicago and couldn’t make it this time.”