AGAINST THE WALL I REST THE IRON WRECKING BAR AND I LONG FOR putting my body between Lester V. Burdon’s raised weapon and my wife and son, but I cannot do this without stepping over the nearly conscious body of Kathy Nicolo, and this I am quite certain the tall yelling deputy sheriff will not allow. My blood is thick and cold within me and I feel my arms have become mere threads. Lester V. Burdon keeps his weapon aimed directly at my heart and he is yelling many things at once. Questions and orders. What did you do to her? Step back! Pick her up! Shut up! This last to Nadi who is screaming uncontrollably, and he points the gun and she falls silent, clutching our son who has become completely still and quiet, watching the man and the gun as if from a great distance.

I attempt to begin explaining things, but I can only open my hands and say, “Listen. Listen.” And he aims the weapon back at me, the flowers behind him appearing like evil wings. But then Kathy Nicolo makes a sound and Lester V. Burdon stops his yelling and watches as the girl moves her head once from side to side, her heavy eyes focused on the air above her. “Les? Don’t, don’t.”

“Move!” Mr. Burdon waves his weapon at us, and my wife and son and I retreat to the rear of the corridor as he kneels at the woman’s side, his back against the wall, his weapon resting on the carpet in his hand. He pulls the robe securely over her chest, then he places his hand upon her forehead, speaks her name, asks if she is all right. In the light from the bathroom, the color of the young woman’s face is not good, like green olives immersed too long in water. She turns her head to Lester V. Burdon, and her strangely small and dark eyes do not appear to see him. She smiles weakly. “You’re here.”

“Yes, I’m here. I’m here.” He pushes away the hair from around her face. I feel the time has come to speak but I must choose my words carefully. It is clear he loves this Kathy Nicolo; I must not have any disrespect in my voice. She has closed her eyes, a tentative smile upon her lips, and Lester V. Burdon regards us immediately. “What did you do to her?”

I take in a breath to speak, but Esmail steps forward. “She took a whole bottle of my mother’s sleeping pills. You want to see?” And without waiting for a response from the armed Mr. Burdon, Esmail retrieves the empty prescription bottle from the bathroom sink and then returns to his mother’s side, holding the bottle out in front of him for Mr. Burdon’s inspection.

“Bring it to me.” Burdon raises the pistol but does not point it at us. His voice reveals some emotion: fear. And I too am filled with it as my son stops at Kathy Nicolo’s bare feet and gives to Burdon the bottle. He must narrow his eyes to read the label in only the light from the kitchen, the candlelight from the living-room area, and in English I ask my son to return to us, but he stays at the feet of Kathy Nicolo, as if it is important he wait there.

Burdon lowers the container. “How many? When?”

My wife tells to me in Farsi the bottle was nearly full, perhaps thirty to forty tablets.

“English!”

“My wife is saying in the bottle there were thirty tablets, but Kathy Nicolo was in the bathroom a very short period, perhaps only a half hour’s time, and my wife has made her lose her stomach. She has vomited the pills.”

Burdon looks down at the young woman once more. He pulls from her chin and mouth a strand of hair, then rests his palm on her forehead. I feel the moment has come to continue. “She also attempted to shoot herself with that pistol.”

He regards me very quickly, the skin above his eyes drawn in tight lines, and I am careful not to use his name. “I discovered her with it in her automobile. She was quite upset. She had been drinking a great deal.”

Lester V. Burdon looks from me to Nadi, to Esmail, then at me once more, his lips open beneath his mustache, as if this piece of information must enter his mouth as well as his ears. But then he shakes his head and stands. “Bullshit. Bullshit.” And he orders us to carry Kathy Nicolo to a bed.

There are tears in Nadi’s eyes, but she appears relieved to be allowed movement again. She quickly administers to Kathy Nicolo, closing the robe around her bare legs, securing the knot more tightly at her waist. In poor English she directs me to take the arms of Kathy Nicolo while she and Esmail see to the legs. My back is stiff but I squat low behind the woman’s head and place my hands beneath her upper arms. She opens her eyes, but again, they are quite small and dark. We lift and begin to carry her into Nadereh’s room, and Lester V. Burdon is so close behind me I am able to hear his breathing. He tells to us to be careful, very careful, and in his voice there is still the menace of his anger and disbelief, but also his fear for the well-being of the young woman. But what concerns me more than these is this man’s probable knowledge of my visit to his superior officer. If he is capable of breaking into our home, of pointing a loaded weapon at us, what more can we expect of him?

My mouth is quite dry, and as we lay Kathy Nicolo upon Nadereh’s bed, I attempt to look into the faces of my wife and son but their eyes are on the task before them, Nadereh gently lifting Kathy Nicolo’s feet so Esmail can free the light blanket beneath. They cover her to her shoulders and Lester Burdon orders us to step away from the bed. We obey. He sits upon the mattress beside her and he touches her face, speaks her name and inquires if she is awake. The young woman opens her eyes and smiles once more at him, but her eyes are wet and she begins to weep and says nothing, simply weeps.

Only a few moments before, when Nadereh and I were attempting to walk the woman down the corridor, we argued in Farsi of phoning the hospital. I had reached the decision we should, but my wife of course panicked and began screaming we will be arrested for stealing this woman’s home, Behrani, for harming her, for the pistol, for—then she lost her grasp of Kathy Nicolo’s arms and shortly thereafter Lester V. Burdon was upon us.

Now we watch as he strokes his lover’s hair. Her eyes close and she appears to sleep once more. Her cheeks have a yellow hue, her lips a washed-away saffron. I prepare myself to step forward and speak, to recommend to Mr. Burdon he telephone the hospital, but he has already risen and picked up the receiver. He looks in our direction, then he places upon the bed his weapon and depresses the necessary telephone buttons, their computerized beeps the only sound in the room. He requests the emergency room nurse on duty, pulling from his trousers pocket the empty prescription bottle. To the nurse, he does not identify himself but simply states the facts. He tells to her the brand name of the drug. He gives the approximate height and weight of Kathy Nicolo. He tells to her how long a time he believes passed before she vomited. And he nods yes, she is responsive but still quite drowsy. He listens to the nurse, looking from Kathy Nicolo’s sleeping face, to us, to the empty pharmaceutical bottle in his hand. He thanks the nurse and completes the telephone call without ever having identified himself, and I no longer possess hope we will be going to the hospital, to the bright lights and many faces of a public place.

Burdon once more retrieves his weapon, but as he views Kathy Nicolo he allows it to hang by his side like a forgotten artifact. Nadereh pushes her elbow into my ribs, but she says nothing and I do not turn to her although I am certain she is seeing this moment as a time for appeasement and reconciliation, and I should speak. But my better judgment is against this; in the lamp’s light near the bed Burdon appears lost, gom shode. There are shadows in the cheeks of his face, and his eyes are narrowed in what I believe to be not only concern for Kathy Nicolo, but deep and painful surprise and confusion as well. No, in this moment he is weak. And it is the weak who are truly dangerous.