Donnie thumbed a crease out of his otherwise perfect white cuff. His hands didn’t look any different today. He knew that blood didn’t really stain skin but he felt like there should be some evidence that marked him. Not that his hands had done the act. The bullet bore the most responsibility, the gun less so and the hand that held it less than that. He had been little more than a tripod for the stainless steel barrel; a cameraman for the family.

What was the difference between yesterday and today?

He held his palms out in front of him and studied their seeming symmetry. One set of lines mimicked the other imperfectly, broken by scars and patches of dead skin. Which hand represented him more? Were they both him?

The thick oak door at the end of the room swung open and a grandfatherly voice beckoned.

“Come on in and be welcome.”

Donnie scrambled to his feet and touched his hair. Yesterday he had been a nobody, today he was a made man.

With a calmness he didn’t feel, Donnie passed through the dark doorway.