Why I Asked The Judge To Reduce The Sentence Of The Teen Who Shot Me

I remember thinking how expensive it had gotten. I remember thinking about shrinkage reports and insurance and how small businesses don’t survive on sympathy.

So I called the police.

I didn’t ask him why.

I didn’t ask who it was for.

I didn’t ask anything.

They arrested him in front of customers. In front of neighbors. In front of whoever happened to be walking by.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t beg.

But when they pushed him into the back of the squad car, he looked at me.

It wasn’t anger.

It was humiliation.

Three nights later, he came back.

The footage shows him standing outside my store for almost ten minutes. Walking away. Coming back. Walking away again.

When he finally stepped inside, I recognized him immediately.

He pulled the gun before I could speak.

I don’t remember the sound of the shot.

I remember the expression on his face after.

It wasn’t rage.

It was panic.

Like he had just realized he’d done something permanent.

I collapsed on the floor between the candy rack and the soda fridge.

He ran.

I survived.

Months later, his mother knocked on my door.

Her eyes were tired in a way that didn’t come from one bad day.

She handed me a letter from juvenile detention.

Keon wrote that the formula was for his baby sister. Their benefits had been delayed. The baby had been drinking watered-down milk. He said he panicked.

He wrote that when he was arrested in front of neighbors, his stepfather beat him for “bringing shame to the house.”

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