4

Morning and the rain had stopped. Ness came reeling awake. He had slept fitfully. Tossing with the thunderclaps and fighting the current in the wheatfield of his dreams.

He peeled his eyes open. His temples were banging like a drum. The empty fifth had tipped from the bureau and was lying on the floor. In the trees outside his window a chorus of songbirds was chittering happily. A thing he’d sworn off time and again had returned. The headache, the malaise. A moment of great despair. He went to the bathroom, pissed, and washed his face. In the mirror stared a man with blood-rimmed eyes with pouches the color of plums.

Goddamnit, he said.

His holster was hanging on a hook near the door and he took his pistol from it and went back to the bed and lay down on top of the sheets.

The birds were singing and the wind was coming through the window very gently and when it hit his skin felt cool as water. He was staring at the ceiling, at the same crack in the plaster he always did, and he thought about his wife and his son, and for another countless time he put the pistol to his temple and flexed his finger on the trigger. The hammer drew back and against the birds singing and the wind blowing it made only a faint, hollow pop as the hammer fell on an empty chamber. He dropped the gun.

Okay, he said.

Then he stood and washed his face again and got dressed and packed a suitcase.