"You're either here by accident or because you know something," he said as he stood up from the little table with its scrawny lamp throwing a weak glow. I couldn't see his face. His green t-shirt was tucked into the front of his blue jeans behind a square silver belt buckle. There was a knife on the table. Not the sort of knife that's available for purchase as a part of a Thanksgiving carving set from a kiosk at the mall, either. The only set that this knife belonged to must have included brass knuckles and a Louisville slugger. It had a blade about eight inches long that seemed to devour the lamp's tawdry light. "But either way," he said, slowly, "you shouldn't be here." I didn't know what to say. I hadn't expected to have to say anything. I could feel the untraceable metal of the hand gun against my lower back. Tucked under my belt. Too far away to be useful. His hand hovered above the knife and I could feel him looking at me from the shadows. "I'm here for Parker." I said. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said as he took the knife in hand. | image by @antonymicallef