7.

7.

I laid the last page down on the pile strewn at my feet. I slumped where I sat next to the word processor—a Texas Instruments 8010—and covered my face with my hands. The instant darkness made me sleepy.

So tired.

Of everything. My job. My life. Driving from school to school. Doing my shuck and jive to get kids selling magazines, kids who half the time didn’t give a rat’s ass. Tired of them, tired of the same motels, the same cars so alike I couldn’t remember anything about them, the same old bar whores. I was tired of the whole damn game.

That’s why I’d bought the .38, of course. I’m sure you saw that coming a mile away. How could I have missed it? It was right in front of my face. Had been for over a year. How many times can you sit in your motel room—or cabin—and cradle the gun you bought for “personal protection” before you get the message, loud and clear?

Anyway, sitting before a pile of paper spit out by a Texas Instruments word processor, on which was written a