The guns. Mom can’t find the guns; she won’t understand.

Mark sat bolt upright, sending the tray table crashing to the floor. The blaring TV masked the noise, but only slightly. He slid down from the hospital bed, the sudden movement yanking the IV stand sideways, raking it along the bed rails, causing the needle to jab him painfully in the arm.

“Ouch! Son of a… where’s the phone. I gotta call…who? Steve! Yeah, Steve.” Mark grabbed the bar of the IV stand and shuffled across the room to the desk with the phone.

Three rings later, Steve answered, “Hello?”

“Steve, it’s Mark! Thank god; listen I need your help.”

“Mark who?”

“Mark. Gillroy. Your old roomate.”

“Yeah right, ass.”

“It’s me! I need your help.”

“Stop it,” said Steve, agitated. “It takes a lot of nerve calling me tonight. Mark died a year ago tonight, so just stop it.”

Holding the receiver out in front him, Mark gazed across the quiet, pristine room and caught his palid reflection in the mirror, a gaping hole on the top of his head.

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