Liz Barrett Browning never carried a gun, or strapped it to the inside of her thigh. That .38 revolver cold against her skin, makes Bonnie sigh. Warmer in the palm of hand, the finger squeezing the trigger. She’s done with the poem. She’ll copy and send to the papers who’ll lap it up like sour milk to a thirsty cat. Penned it well, she thinks. Clyde says nothing on it; he reads the headlines for the crimes. She read Liz Browning at school amongst others, that woman thing, shared insight, mutual feelings, knows the monthly bleeds, understands the feel of men, the coming on, that big hero thing. She feels the revolver against her flesh, metal on skin, warming

now, forgetting it’s there. This is one thing, Bonnie says, smiling, Liz won’t share.