Christmas was coming and Alma really needed some extra shifts. Jordan was pining for an immersion gaming system. Damn thing was $1,500, but he made all A’s and didn’t give her a lick of trouble.

It came back, the flower in its pot: the plastic flower in its plastic pot: the yellow, straight-stemmed flower in its round red pot. At the base of its stem—green, yes, and unnaturally straight—lay a circle of brown . . .

I’ve picked up a pen to write to you for the first time in a while.

But now that I have, I’m not sure what to say.

When I was your age, I couldn’t go to bed without writing a page or two . . .

There is something about my face. I’m not paranoid. This has been reported. “What? What did I do to you?”

Or “Stop.” I don’t know what look I must make. I search my heart . . .

I left without saying goodbye to him, my escape quicker and quieter than I’d imagined. And now, as I walk down my street, everything has taken on a peculiar quality: the road narrower than I thought, the stench . . .

It was getting late and everyone was telling their gun stories. Times they’d had a gun pulled on them, almost been shot, or, for just a couple of people, times they actually had been hit with a bullet . . .