drowsing under a pile of blankets, i heard a familiar knock. i stumbled to the door. it was him. behind him, street-lights, falling sleet, bad memories. he assumed that i would let him in -- i always had before. and i did. he sat in the kitchen as the coffee brewed, just making small talk. finally he told me what he'd done this time. eight years old. jesus. just a child. he was going away now, far away, but the roads were too icy to drive on. could he sleep on my couch? in the morning, he'd leave for good; no more favors, ever. sure, i said. -- you'll need a blanket. he smiled. i went to the bedroom. the gun was in the bottom drawer behind some shirts i never liked, where i'd stashed it the night that i decided to live. it was still loaded. now i was glad i'd kept it. now i knew who those bullets were really for.
Copyright 1994 Edward Gaillard. All rights reserved.