The Gun Goes Off. I Fall.

I Want People To Come Away From My Book With Questions. Questions About Virtue And Goodness. Not Answers.

I Feel Empty, Not Because Of Sadness, But Because Of Relief, All The Tension Flowing Out Of Me.

I Don't Have A Bullet In My Head, Do I? So I'm Fine.

I Try To Catch My Breath And Calm Myself Down, But It Isn't Easy. I Was Dead. I Was Dead, And Then I Wasn't, And Why? Because Of Peter? Peter? I Stare At Him. He Still Looks So Innocent, Despite All That He Has Done To Prove That He Is Not. His Hair Lies Smooth Against His Head, Shiny And Dark, Like We Didn't Just Run For A Mile At Full Speed. His Round Eyes Scan The Stairwell And Then Rest On My Face. "what?" He Says. "why Are You Looking At Me Like That?" " How Did You Do It?" I Say.

It's Strange To See People You Don't Know Well In The Morning, With Sleepy Eyes And Pillow Creases In Their Cheeks