The call autologged at 3:51 am. Rebe screened for enrollment and talked with the grandma before deploying.
“That boy gonna kill hisself.”
“Does he have a weapon?”
“He always got something, girl.”
It was a two-story frame deal on Farr near Mt. Elliott. Not as rough as others on the block. A light was on upstairs.
The grandma stood on a patch of lawn in front. She noticed Rebe’s belly. “Damn, child.”
“Few more weeks.”
Rebe jumped when the shot came and saw the dark spatter against the yellow light of the window upstairs.
The first contraction doubled her over.
Greg Sendi: A Chicago writer and former fiction editor at Chicago Review. Career has included broadcast and trade journalism as well as poetry and fiction. Twitter: @gsendi. Website: gsendi.com.
The Centifictionist 
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