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said.
    “So just me, Freeman, and the continuity girl?”
    “That’s it. And I’ll stick with you from here on out if you’d like.”
    “Well, let’s not get crazy here,” Annie said, feeling her feet grip the edge of something that felt important.
    “Why not?” Minda said, and Annie, slightly drunk, could not think of a single reason.
    A nnie rolled the first of her Skee-Balls, polished hardwood, like a weapon in her hands, down the lane, bumping over the ball-hop, and into the fifty-point ring. “Beginner’s luck,” she said. Eric smiled and, on the adjoining machine, waited as the nine balls rolled into position. “Another bet,” he said, “since you did so well on the first one?” Annie rolled another ball down the lane, fifty points. “And yet you still got me to answer your question,” she said.
    “I’m good at my job,” he said.
    “What’s the question this time?” she asked, already prepared for the answer.
    “Minda Laughton,” Eric replied.
    “Fine,” Annie thought, “why not?”
    “Fine,” Annie said, “why not?”
    Eric picked up his first Skee-Ball and rolled it expertly down the lane, a short hop, and into the fifty-point ring. A split second later, the second ball hopped into the fifty-point ring, then a third, fourth, and fifth. Annie stared at Eric, who was trying not to smile. All nine Skee-Balls ended up in the fifty-point ring, the machine flashing and sirens blaring, tickets spitting out of the dispenser and piling at Eric’s feet.
    “So, you’re a Skee-Ball hustler,” Annie said, miffed.
    “I’m in a league,” he said.
    “You’re in a Skee-Ball league?”
    “Yes.”
    “We can still tie, you know,” Annie said, “then I don’t have to answer the question.”
    “Fair enough,” Eric responded. “Just seven more to go.”
    Annie felt the heft of the Skee-Ball in her hand, swung her arm back with great force, and then felt a sudden and total resistance to the motion. She felt her index and middle fingers jam spectacularly, and she jerked her hand back as if electrocuted. Then she heard the sound of a child crying. She looked down and saw a little girl, perhaps six years old, lying flat out on the ground, holding her head, Annie’s Skee-Ball rolling to a stop against another machine.
    “Holy shit,” Eric said, his voice hushed.
    “What?” Annie said. “What happened?”
    “Well,” Eric said, running over to the girl, Annie following, “you hit this little kid in the head with your Skee-Ball. Or your fist. Maybe both.”
    “Holy shit,” Annie said, her voice breaking as she spoke.
    The child was on her knees now, rubbing her head, hiccupping from the force of her crying.
    “It’s okay,” Eric said. “Easy now.”
    Annie ran over to Eric’s Skee-Ball machine and tore off the strip of tickets he had won. She hurried back to the little girl, as if she was an unstable element that might explode.
    “Take these,” Annie said, and the girl began to quiet.
    “And these,” Annie then said, handing her the nearly full cup of quarters.
    “And this,” Annie finally said, handing the girl twenty dollars.
    The girl, eyes red-rimmed, nose runny, smiled and then walked away. Annie saw a small bump already forming on the back of her head and wondered what would happen when the girl’s parents saw it and came looking for answers.
    “Let’s get out of here,” she told Eric.
    “I won that round,” Eric said.
    “Fair enough. Jesus, let’s just go.”
    “That was something.”
    “You’re not going to put that in the article, are you?”
    “I don’t see how I could leave it out; you just knocked out a little girl.”
    Annie, exasperated and terrified of retribution, began to walk quickly out of the arcade, the sun temporarily blinding her. She would answer his questions, go home, pack up her belongings, and move to Mexico. She would star in telenovelas and drink herself into a stupor. She would let it get worse before it got better.
    L ess than a week