There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. It had been a trying day. I—I am a lovesick idiot, and not accountable for my actions. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. Will you go? You'll be paid handsomely for your trouble. He told me with a coarse nervous laugh. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach.
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