“Dear Jesus. Thank you for mommy and auntie Marla and mei-mei Fred. Thank you for makin’ everybody in the ‘verse their own special kinda shiny, even when they seem real mean and stupid. Oh, an’ thanks for my dog Goodboy and all the cats that live in the barn. Amen.”

The small-for-his age tow-headed boy leapt from his kneeling onto his bed, yanking his two oversized comforters over his head. A delicate, but firm hand stopped them about halfway up, and the grey-haired sharp-featured woman looked sternly down at the boy, who returned the look with an impish grin. “Jayne…” she began, a smile trying to crack through her firm expression “By ‘the barn’ did you mean the shed that our landlords own?”

“No Auntie Marla.” The eight-year-old lied, trying, rather unsuccessfully, to feign innocence. “I ain’t keepin’ anymore cats in that dirty ole’ shed.

“Jayne…” the lady echoed, preparing a good lecture. The boy never heard it though, three pops, like gunshots, sounded in the not-so-distance. Marla jumped, and pressed her hand against her heart trying to calm herself when silence fell again.

“S’alright Auntie Marla.” Jayne tried to comfort as his aunt made her way to the window to check nearby happenings. “Was just a gunfight is all. Don’t they have gunfights at the core?”

Marla pulled the curtain back from the window. All seems well on the dimly lit street four stories below. Turning back to Jayne, she was astounded by his casual reaction to the possible loss of human life within his hearing range. “We most certainly do not!” Her hands shook as she returned to sit in the chair by the bed, where the boy sat, looking up at her with an almost eager curiosity. “Maybe we should call the federal marshals.”

Jayne’s eyes widened in something similar to horror, with more then a little shock involved. “Call the feds? You don’t wanna be doin’ that Auntie Marla. They’d sooner shoot ya then listen to your story.”

“Now Jayne.” Marla patronized “The marshals are good men and women, and I don’t ever