They move to the back of the store to, thank god, the bathroom that doesn’t really lock. The door is already partially open. White Trash’s foot must have kicked it when he fell. That is where is now; on his back, his face contorting with discomfort. A black pistol is visible on the floor, nudging against the White Trash hat. A gold bullet casing rests in the corner. Everything about the boy is now revealed on the dirty bathroom tile.