Two and a half pounds, that’s the trigger pull on my revolver after I cock the hammer. Just two and a half pounds between me and nothing. One round in the cylinder, the brass is so bright it looks like it’s gold.

One more drink and I cock the hammer back. The revolver is heavier than I remember as I feel the cold metal of the barrel against my temple. It’s a new moon outside, that seems right somehow; this isn’t a show anyone should see.

Two and a half pounds is all the pressure it takes, less than you use to crush a soda can. I squeeze the trigger and I swear I hear the hammer fall. Then nothing at all.