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.