A continuous, gentle white ribbon wafted from my cigarette. Along with the sway of the porch swing, it took on a waveform shape. Smoke sound. The veil of calm descending across my psyche, the scent screen which cast me back to my childhood, where I played with toys on the floor of a house saturated with the same smell. Maybe that is why I was thinking of my grandfather.

It was always a good smell. Now he was slowly wasting away to lung failure, and I stood on the brink of continuing that legacy. Already the spin had entered my consciousness, enhancing the world around me. I thought of each break as putting the gun to my head, the way I pointed it at Riley, except I pulled a drag instead of the trigger. It’s metallic aftertaste masked the sore in my mouth as I probed the spot with my tongue.

Malcolm would not return from the hospital until Friday. He had nearly bled to death, all because he wasn’t careful before cleaning his gun. I shook my head. The police had been very interested in my fingerprints.