This raised a number of questions. What could such a thought mean? From whence did it come? Was Lupita the world? To whom does this gun belong? Why had it gotten so quiet? Where’s the nobility in surrender?

“Lupita,” I cried from behind the insistent weapon, “This is all kind of freaking me out! I do investment banking at a brokerage firm. What’s going on here?”

She shrugged and swallowed hard. Some distant part of my brain recognized the discomfort of her situation at the business end of a pistol from Hell. How I knew it was from Hell escapes me, but it seemed to fit.

“Danny, I can’t give you the answers you seek.” I think she wanted to say more but somewhere between the heartbreak of it all and a very reasonable fear for her own life, she got a little choked up. One lone tear slid down her perfect cheek.

Another voice, a quiet, reassuring one, gave me my answer. My faltering hand brought the gun up under my own chin. Lupita raised a hand in weak protest.

I prayed. I chose. I died.