The smoke from her gun was followed by a burning pain in my side and a gush of red. Dizzy and suddenly cold with terror, I fell to the ground.
It hadn’t been personal. Not this time.
Stray bullet. Wrong place, wrong time, and all because I came back.
The last thing I heard was the man, Al, screaming at her to drop the weapon and call 911.
I was nearly overpowered by the damnedest urge to laugh. Paramedics busting in to save me, finding the gun, calling the cops while I bled out.
She dropped the gun and stared down at me. “Can’t you bleed somewhere else? God, my deck!”
I patted her arm, or thought I did. “Don’t worry, dear. Your cell will be squeaky clean,” I said, or thought I did.
She didn’t respond, just looked at me in horror.
The last thing I felt was my temperature dropping, and such awful weakness, plus a strange sort of thinning, a widening, as though I were spilled water, as if I were melting into the rough wooden boards.
The last thing I thought was, Who will find my journal, and how will my kids know what I’ve written for them to see?