The punk looked at her just a little too long, and it made her uncomfortable. He swaggered as he moved past her and toward the back of the bus. His pants hung too low on his hips. The layered shirts he wore were far too big for his skinny shoulders. His baseball cap wasn’t even on straight—the bill cocked strangely to the left of his face.

As he passed her seat, he stared at her. She looked right back at him, not challenging him but showing him she was not intimidated even though her hands clutched a little more tightly the large handbag that sat in her lap.

Ethel thought about how she must look to the kid. She was nearly 80 years old, face wrinkled, hair a soft blue-gray, hands speckled with age spots. A lifetime of activity left her in relatively good shape for someone her age. Unlike so many of her contemporaries, she was able to get around without the aid of a cane or a walker, albeit much more slowly than she cared to think about.

The brakes screeched as the bus came to another stop. Several more passengers boarded—a tired-looking woman in a waitress’s uniform, two giggling high school girls who were certainly skipping classes, and another kid dressed much the same as the first but also sporting a pair of expensive shades.

This kid never looked her way as he strutted to the back of the bus, oozing attitude. His lip curled slightly as he approached the other punk. The two of them postured like peacocks trying to impress potential mates. Finally the newcomer lifted his chin just slightly when the first punk—the one who had stared at her—cast his eyes to the side and out the window. They stood next to one another and said nothing.

As the bus approached Ethel’s stop, she started to rise and was jostled by the punks making their way toward the door. She was angered by their lack of manners and then surprised to see them stop right behind a well-dressed elderly man as he struggled to his feet. Down the steps and out the door they followed him. Ethel was the last to exit.

The street and sidewalk were nearly deserted, and as the bus pulled away the punks started harassing the old man.

“Hey, Gramps. Whatcha got? How much money, huh?”

The old man looked steadily ahead and tried to continue walking, but they blocked his way.

“Come on, Gramps. Give it up. What’s an old guy like you need money for? How ‘bout that fancy watch? We got plans. Yeah, that’s right. We got plans.” The two wanna-be “gangstas” continued to circle around him.

Ethel’s patience finally wore out. The kids paid no attention to her as she quietly moved down the sidewalk at a respectable distance. She opened her mouth to call out to them but then thought better of it until the old man stumbled and fell to the ground.

The punks jeered as they leaned over him and reached for his pockets. Without a thought, Ethel pulled the gun from her purse, aimed, and fired. One kid took off running without even looking back while the other grabbed his ass and fell to the ground screaming.

“You shot me!” the punk screamed, thrashing so violently that his shades flew off his face.

Ethel looked at him, and both of them were shocked as recognition dawned.

“Yes, well…I guess I did,” she replied, stunned. “You have one of them fancy smartphones. Call your mother.”

She placed the gun back in her handbag and then helped the gentleman up. She was shaken but unconcerned about the kid. He would live, and he’d never tell anyone his own grandmother had shot him in the backside. He’d never live it down.