I curl myself into No. 106 and slam the door. I am swallowed by darkness. I am cramped, sweaty, shaky. I gasp for breath. There is a paper bag in my hand, but I cannot use it for CO₂. I let it go, and the gun clunks at my feet. I start weeping quietly, and the sleeves of my cardigan sweater hang around me like an embrace. This locker is my coffin. May I never leave it.

Time creeps along. I cannot tell how much time. Twenty minutes? Two hours? But eventually the locker’s back panel is tugged open, and before me stands a boy with a Mohawk stiffened with white glue (polyvinyl acetate). “Jesus!” he cries. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

When I unfold myself and slip out of the locker, I feel lifeless. I am a zombie. The walking dead. The warehouse is now filled with dozens of sorters rummaging through the delivered goods and piling items into buggies and onto dollies. They are as diligent as worker ants.

“What were you doing in there?” the punk rocker asks.

“Looking for unusual finds,” I mutter.

“There’s nothing unusual about this beat-up locker.”

“Au contraire,” I reply.

I glance back inside the locker. It is empty once again. All my belongings are gone, including the paper bag. I close the locker door.

I arrange for the punk rocker to deliver No. 106 to Curios later in the week. I ask him the time now, and he says five to eleven. I was away for several hours.

I pick up my rock-filled flashlight and shuffle back to the Guy Montag Library. Coming up the library’s walkway, I hear a yapping, and Pierre clambers out of the bushes that grow alongside the building. Heavens, I had forgotten all about the dog. He leaps up and down to welcome me back. I carry him inside. When we reach Curios on the third floor, I am hesitant to enter, but I force myself to undo the chain lock. My footsteps echo and Pierre’s nails clickety-clack as we walk through the exhibit halls. Despite the dozens of displays, the space feels empty, as though not a soul is around. I say to Pierre, “Let’s see if his soul is still here.”

We head to Johnny’s room, and I drag the armoire away from his door. When I go inside, I am not shocked to find the bed empty. Lying atop it are red gym shorts, a white tank top, and a blue bauble. I slip the items into the drawer underneath the bed where the revolver still resides.

Just in case, I check to see whether Zig filled the gun with bullets during my absence, but there are none inside. Well, I guess I cannot shoot myself in my stupid brain or defective heart.

I doff my T-shirt and jeans and climb under the covers in only my shorts. A slight whiff of onions lingers. Pierre hops onto the bed and curls up at my feet. I am very, very tired, yet I wonder whether I will ever fall asleep again, and if I do, will I ever wake?

My voice trembles slightly when, to the ceiling fan, I say, “Tell me a bedtime story, Zig. But please, no more fairy tales. No more fiction.”

The ceiling fan whirls and twirls.

“I want the truth.”

As usual, Zig says nothing. But he does not need to reply. I now know the truth. I know in my holey heart what you, dear Mother and Father, have long known: your son was Gunboy.