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“What you thinkin’?” Leaf whispered into my ear.

“About how I’m gonna go about doin’ what I have to do.”

“I’m going with you.”

The words No you’re not came into my mind. But instead of saying them, this time I had a plan.

I sat up in our queen-size bed and looked down on her: sprawled out and almost irresistible.

“When you,” I began, “were told that Luwanda might have cancer, you didn’t call me.”

She sat up too, looking at me with new eyes. Her emotion was an admixture of innocence and fear.

“Yeah?” she admitted. “So?”

“You didn’t want me there.”

“You were working.”

“That’s not it, honey. That’s not it at all. Your whole soul was leanin’ down to help your second mother to live. Me comin’ out there would’a been you acceptin’ that she was about to die. And you couldn’t have that. You couldn’t bear it.”

Leaf’s eyes teared up but did not overflow.

“So what?” she said, trying to sound strong.

“What I got to do has to be on my own too.”

“I won’t get in the way.”

“You’re never in the way,” I said with feeling. “It’s just that I can’t do what I have to do with you anywhere close.”

That was the first time she understood what my grandmother had known the last time she looked at me. Her face asked a question that had no voice. I sat there, looking at myself in her eyes.

Then there was a knock at the door.

Leaf’s emotions drew back like some rare rain-forest flower that bunches up its bright-colored petals at sunset.

I got out of bed, pulled on a pair of pants, and went to open the door.

Even though I was expecting this man, he was not at all what I’d imagined. Six foot three at least, he had red and gray hair, an overabundance of muscle, and topaz-colored eyes.

“Mr. Oliver?”

“Yes?”

He moved his head forward an inch or so to get a better look. I wondered then if Primo had had a secret camera that captured my portrait for this moment.

The man bent down to grab a cardboard box that was an eighteen-inch cube. He handed this to me, then he was off down the concrete path that separated my house from another.

Sitting on the living-room sofa, I placed the package on the table before us and used a pen knife to cut through the shield of tape that covered it. There were four packages nestled inside. I took out the largest one first. This was the body armor. I stood and held it before me, showing Leaf how it would fit.

“That’s bulletproof?” she asked.

I put the vest down, then took out a vaguely L-shaped bundle. Using the penknife again, I started cutting the item wrapped in brown paper and tape, finally producing a black metal gun. I checked the magazine and the firing chamber. When I was sure that the Welrod had no bullets, I flipped on the safety and handed the neutered killing device to her.

“They call this the Welrod,” I said.

“It looks funny,” she rejoined, holding the piece in a familiar way. “The barrel’s, like, too long—and kinda fat, too. Plus it’s heavy.”