Mommy, why is that man crying? A blonde girl about six-years-old in pigtails asks. It takes me a moment to realize that she’s talking about me.
I slide my sunglasses from my bald head to my nose. Never take them off. Never let anyone see my eyes. Force a smile at the girl. She stops kicking her legs, lets them dangle from the Wal-Mart shopping cart seat and stares at me. She’s probably looking at herself in the mirrored lenses, but I can’t help but think that she knows that I’ve killed girls like her in other countries.
Don’t look at her. Stare at the check-out candy. Chunky Bars? They still make Chunky Bars?
That’s right, Mommy. Shield your baby girl. Get her as far away as you can from the monster in aisle six.
Glance away. Spot Wal-Mart’s sign that reads We Support Our Troops on the wall beside the restrooms. Fitting.
Don’t worry, Mommy. No doubt you and your family worship the right god, and your little girl was born in this country. It also helps that she doesn’t have dark skin.
Don’t frown, kid. Sometimes monsters can protect you.