In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Mouth Drop.”
Buddy hit the ground hard and slid in blood, but I couldn’t tell if it was his or the others. There was glass in his hair from when the men had shattered our car window and cuts on his arms from when they’d pulled him through it. Buddy had shanked the one with guilt in his eyes, and he’d run away from trouble. But in the end, the remaining men had still gotten what they wanted. Buddy died, and his jaw slacked open, and tears rolled down my crumpled face.