Lupe had come out from behind the counter, which she never did during a rush. She had a bag of ice from the soda machine wrapped in a napkin, and she was holding it out to him.
"I'm fine," Danny said. His voice sounded like someone else's. "It doesn't hurt."
"There's a mark." She touched her own throat to show him where. "He got you with his ring. Hold this."
He held it. People were coming in now, handing him tickets, and he tore them, and he said, "Enjoy the show," but he couldn't look up. He couldn't do the one thing Mrs. Dunning had taught him. He looked at the tickets instead. The ink on them said ADMIT ONE in a typeface that had probably been designed before his grandmother was born.
Mrs. Dunning came in from the booth at 7:35 when the line was through. She was sixty-three and wore her silver hair in a French twist that did not move in wind, and she took Danny's chin in her hand and turned his head to the light the way his mother did when she was looking for a splinter.
"Officer Pruitt is on his way," she said. "I called the station."
"I don't want to make a thing of it."
"It's already a thing, Danny. A hundred people saw it."
"He's my landlord," Danny said. He hadn't known he was going to say that, either. "Prairie Holdings. That's him. Kenny told me. He owns our duplex."
Mrs. Dunning's hand stayed on his chin for a moment longer. Then she let go.
"Well," she said. "Then we'll be careful. But careful isn't the same as quiet."