Quig watched people shiver, shuffle, even stamp their feet a bit.
He was warm, dressed in layers, something he learned from one of the old guys when he was still a stone virgin, hadn’t been incarcerated yet.
“Nothing will distract you more than being cold,” the guy had said. “Dress warm, do the job, know at least three ways out. Even if you just taking a wallet, know at least three ways out.”
The widow was stoic. Not even much steamy breath coming out of her. Some women near her were crying and singing at the same time, one dabbing at her face with an ornate silver hanky, could have been a placemat at a fancy restaurant in the ‘70s.
There weren’t as many white faces as Quig expected, even hoped for. He kinda wanted to blend in, another lesson from early in his life.
“Don’t stand out, don’t be loud.”
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