The gun was cold in his hand. He wanted to put it down.
His hand didn't know how to take the bullet out of the chamber. He never had before.
They were in Rome when the options ran out. Wasn't that perfect? Amid ruins, columns,
Renaissance architecture and oil paint her battle with the inevitable.
And hadn't he always known?
He'd seen this before. At work, down the barrel of a gun, and earlier than that ….
Not again ….
He was always looking at it through the barrel of a gun.
Not again!
What other way was there to look?