I’d hate to be thought of as prideful, but I was feeling pretty good about myself. My ill-fated high jump over the fence had bought me enough time to find a hiding spot in a vacant lot, wedged in among some oil drums. Not withstanding a massive scratch on the back of my hand, I’d managed to free one hand from the cuffs. And I found a gun!

It’s funny really; it’s more like the gun found me. And it was a nice one too, an older style revolver with a long, gleaming, black barrel. The handle was ornately carved, something smooth and intricate that I couldn’t quite make out in the dim light. But can you imagine the luck?

Felt good. Felt powerful. Felt so surprisingly right in my hand. Felt like salvation, or something else maybe.

Tentative footsteps across loose gravel sent the hairs on my neck into panicked attention. I gripped the gun tightly, causing a light trickle of blood to escape the scratch.

“Danny,” she said, and her voice sounded heavenly, “You have to come out. It’s time.”