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Hector was abruptly thankful that his embarrassed face was hidden and decided to do what came naturally to him. He said nothing.

“Well--" Mallory paused for a grimace. “--Thanks for your help, though I can’t imagine why you did it.”

‘Ask him who sent these men.’

“Wh-who sent these men to kill you?”

Mallory squinted. “How old are you? You sound like a kid.” At Hector’s silence, he said, “Rofal. Joseph Rofal.”

“Because you’re testifying in court a-against him?”

“Not against him. His little shit stain of a nephew. I was there. I saw him murder that boy. No more than ten years old. Dropped a cinderblock on top of the kid’s head. And then laughed. Fuckin’ little bastard--” He broke off for a pained cringe and began coughing. His skin had grown pale. Sweat covered his face. “And now I’m dying ‘cuz of that little fuck? I should’ve just... sh-should’ve just shot that piece of... stupid piece of shit...” The dreary look in his eyes seemed to suggest he had forgotten what he was saying. Or that he no longer cared.

‘Ask him about his family.’

“Your family,” said Hector. “Do you... do you think they could be in danger, too?”

Mallory just sat there, breathing slowly and staring vacantly at the yellow cabinets in front of him. Sirens in the distance told Hector it was about time to leave.

“Officer Mallory, y-your family... I can help.”

‘I think you should go, Hector.’

‘But we need him to tell us...’

‘I don’t think he can hear you.’

Blood dripped from the corner of the officer’s mouth.