“Yeah,” she says, giving in. “I might as well get this travesty out of the way.”
“What travesty?”
“You carrying a big ol’ rifle in the store, scaring the hell out of all the Walmart shoppers.”
“There’s no difference between carrying a rifle and carrying a handgun,” he says.
“You tried that last time, remember?” Maria says, stepping into a pair of flip-flops and running her fingers through her hair. “And what happened? Barrow County sheriffs. Three or four of them.”
“They can’t tell me what and what not to carry,” Jim says. “You know I wouldn’t listen to them anyway.”
“Well, you go one way in the store; I’ll go the other,” Maria says. “Then when they say, ‘Ma’am, do you know this person?’ I’ll say, ‘No, I’ve never seen him before in my life.’ ”
He places a lit cigarette into an ashtray, walks into his bedroom, reaches behind its door, picks up the AR-15, snaps in a magazine with 15 rounds, and slings the rifle around his left shoulder so it rests against his torso.
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