The following rewrite starts from the same point as the previous, but instead of a phone call, Gatsby continues toward the swimming pool. This is what happens next.

Gatsby carried the air mattress toward the great patio doors; suddenly, a shiny object outside caught his eye. It was silver-colored, sort of like a—

Gatsby started to open the door when the first bullet was fired. It shattered the glass and whizzed past his ear. He ducked in time to avoid a second shot. With adrenaline pumping through his body, he quickly crawled to the telephone and dialed the police.

I got a call at 2:35 from the office. It was, to my surprise, from Gatsby. "Hello, old sport," Gatsby said. His tone made me panic—I had never heard him sound so worried.

"What's wrong?" I asked, already putting on my coat.

"There's a man outside in my garden," he whispered, "I don't know who he is, but he wants to kill me! Please help me—" he was cut off, but not before I heard two gunshots. I hung up and rushed to the train station. I arrived at around 2:40.

Gatsby was still running from the unknown assassin when I barged in.

"Oh, I'm glad to see you, old sport!" he yelled. "DUCK!"

I hit the ground just as another bullet came through one of Gatsby's enormous glass windows. More glass littered the floor.

"I'm going to call the police," I shouted, but when I tried to get up he pulled me back.

"I already did that! They said they won't be here for another fifteen minutes!"

"So we have to keep him busy and avoid getting shot until the police get here?!" I called.

"I guess that's the jest of it, old sport," Gatsby said despairingly.

I looked around the giant living room, searching for a weapon, or anything for that matter, that would help us. Then, an idea came to me.

"Do you have a gun?" I inquired, trying to listen for any noises outside. He nodded.

"In the top desk drawer of the desk in the study," he pointed. I ran as fast as I could into the study and opened the drawer. The gun that Gatsby mentioned was inside. I took it and threw it over to him; he caught it single-handedly. A voice from outside broke the suspenseful silence.

"I know you're in there, Gatsby," it screamed. "Come out and get your medicine."

"I'm not sick, old sport," Gatsby shouted back. As if to answer, two more bullets penetrated the windows with a loud shatter. The voice sounded awfully familiar.

"Wilson!" I exclaimed.

"Who?" Gatsby said, confused.

"He's the man who owns the garage just before town. It was his wife that Daisy killed yesterday."

"Oh, so he must think that I—" he started.

"Yeah," I replied.

Again, the house was silent. Gatsby shifted uncomfortably next to me on the ground.

"Did you count how many times he fired?" I questioned. He indicated the number six with his fingers.

"Wait, so that means he probably ran out of ammo!" I exclaimed. Wilson must have heard me, for he replied with a fresh set of gunshots.

"I have plenty more where that came from, Gatsby!" Wilson shrieked. Then, to my horror, I caught a glimpse of him heading toward the open back door. Gatsby checked his gun to make sure it was ready and loaded.

Wilson, who must have noticed no return fire, rushed the door, figuring that it would be like shooting a fish in a barrel. Meanwhile, Gatsby ducked behind the couch, aiming his snub-nose .38 at the entrance. I followed.

Wilson made it through the entryway, and paused for a moment to scan the room. Gatsby, realizing his advantage, opened fire three times, hitting Wilson square in the chest. He stumbled backward through the doorway and out of sight. Seconds later, we heard a splash as Wilson plunged into the pool, dead.

CHAPTER IX

The police finally arrived at 2:50, a few minutes after Wilson's death. They investigated the pool area and the inside of the house, carefully stepping over the bits of broken glass that coated the floor. Gatsby and I were asked various questions about the incident and, before they left, they ruled that Gatsby had acted in self-defense. The newspapers soon got a hold of the story, which accurately portrayed Wilson as a man who had lost his control upon the death of his wife.

As for the hit-and-run incident, Gatsby never took the blame for Daisy and, after a while, the whole event fell back into the forgotten memories of the past. Nobody ever found out who was really at the wheel, and I promised Gatsby that I would keep it a secret.

I called Daisy's house the following week to tell her what had happened, but she and Tom had skipped town without a trace. Gatsby tried several times to reach them as well, but to no avail. I guess after that he gave up on Daisy completely. Somehow, in the back of his mind, he had accepted the fact that his dream had died years ago. Daisy no longer seemed to care about him, and not calling him to ask if he was okay after seeing the Daily News headline confirmed his suspicions.

I kept in touch with Gatsby, joining him for lunch and on morning drives, but he had changed. At first, it was a slight sense of sadness when he talked, probably due to Daisy's callousness. However, after a few months, he recovered. It was as if a huge, lingering burden had been lifted off his shoulders.

Now that Daisy had gone out of his life, he was finally starting to live again, to create a brand new dream all his own, where he could live a life of peace, joy, and most of all, contentment.