I have to shoot you, cousin. For six years your larynx chafed my ears. Now I hear you barely bite your nails behind the register, fixing a defense with a scanner gun. I'm not tallies on a barcode. You moved to Boulder first, broken combs, weed hair, a head full of Christian clairvoyance. I listened for relief, my ears straining. Small doses might have purged the infection. You are the camera above each monitor staring down the aisle. With my burly hair like a black hood and a mask of dark circles, I might be a thief. Which key when struck opens the drawer? The smokes are shelved like pixilated static.