The lady got back up, wiped the blood off her cheek, giving me a dirty look throughout.
I feigned interest in the brick, examining it while trying to avoid laughing.
I was surprised when I found an actual message on the projectile, in crayon:
“If you help her, you’re dead!”
The window behind me shatters, and I duck, narrowly avoiding a pavement stone.
Third time this month. I’m not surprised. With my phone disconnected, it’s the second best way to send me a message.
The dame didn’t react quickly enough, though. Now she’s got a blackeye.
“Duck,” I say, smiling.