Fifteen

Fifteen.

I have fifteen seconds to impact.

My brain and heart cook in unison to burn through options.

Fourteen.

If I shoot, the child dies. If I don’t we crash.

Thirteen.

The last time it felt like this, like a vice grip on my conscience, it was that flash job in Topeka that went pear.

Twelve.

I think about the kid. My kid. This kid. This one life.

Eleven.

What do I need to be around for anyway? What have I got left to deal with, to make better? To make worse?

Ten.

But it’s not just me. It’s them. They’re asleep. They’ll die well. But they shouldn’t. They don’t have a choice. Nobody does.

Nine.

My finger hugs the trigger. My shoulder hugs my ear.

Eight.

The kid is crying. My kid is probably crying.

Seven.

I hope they’re dreaming.

Six.

I hope I’m dreaming.

Five. It’s slowing down.

Four.

I’m hungry.

Three.

It’s Jane’s birthday tomorrow.

Two.

Breathe.

One.