Rusty shopping carts, cardboard boxes, and tattered backpacks were scattered everywhere. Little piles of junk lay around them. There were even tents made from old blankets draped over bushes. Apparently, she’d found some sort of homeless person mecca. Bruce was surrounded by five or six people. One was Scary Witch Hat Guy from last night. He was yelling hysterically and hitting Bruce with a book. Another guy was kicking him. The others were mostly egging them on, but would throw a fist or a foot of their own once in a while. Bruce was fighting back, but there were too many. Someone nailed him square in the face with a big piece of wood. Liza heard the crunch from where she was parked. Bruce reeled back, staggered sideways, and dropped to his knees. His head bobbed close to the ground.
Liza had no idea what was going on. It didn’t matter. She thought about Bruce watching over her the night she had sat outside drawing, taking care of her when she passed out at school, framing her picture of him and displaying it in his office. An hour ago, she’d been wrapped in his warm arms. His head had been lying on the pillow next to hers, and now it was leaking blood like a fountain. It was as Liza was running toward him that she realized that she had already passed the point where she could just walk away.