The world whipped forward, and the gravel driveway flipped upward to slam into the back of Dennis’ head. The thought crept through a fair amount of pain and disorientation that it had been some time since he’d fired that gun, let alone both barrels.

Said firearm toppled end over end, useless and spent. Dennis could relate. He’d seen the flash from the agent’s gun, heard the popping. There was a flash of red at the fool girl’s neck. At least, he could have sworn there was. So he fired.

Shaking hands were fumbling about his head and chest. The old man smiled, for there in his hazy vision was a very tired, rather gaunt, but entirely alive Joanie. She was fussing, as womenfolk do, and saying something. The thunder of the blast must have shaken loose what was left of his hearing.

“I say I am fine, girlie. Quit yer marmin’,” he tried to say over what was certainly some high grade fretting.

It was probably just an old man’s vanity, but he could have sworn she was saying, “I love you, gramps.”