Ma and Pa Gohardy had a shop.

A grocery store built before the great depression and not renovated since. Once it was in the center of town but gradually fell into the outskirts. People wanted to turn it into a cafe but never offered enough money. One rainy day, just after my fourteenth birthday, a kid walked in with a gun and shot Pa Gohardy between the eyes. Right in front of the President Trump poster. The kid ran off with five dollars from the till and a packet of butterscotch mints. Ma Gohardy saw it happen but didn’t have the energy to scream. Old Man Lloyd, thirty minutes later, found her cradling Pa Gohardy’s body and trying to force a biscuit into his lips. She told the inquest that he liked biscuits.

The cops did their best to catch the killer. They rounded up every black man...

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