Leaning against the October sky on the banks of Moon lake, the spherical clocks of two mature dandelions caught a sudden breeze. They drifted from their milky stems as individual seeds, floating on fine hairs to land on distant patches of grass.

Tara plucked the dandelions from their roots and crushed them inside her fist. Things were predictable and safe before the shooting. When she went on the run, she floated one place to the next, never resting and never forgetting the stream of images from the night of the crime.

She looked up at the sun, burning bright and ominous in the sky, and placed a Camel cigarette between her lips. She lit it with cupped hands and then pulled a semi-automatic pistol from her blue purse. With a rush of courage, she loaded the clip, lifted her head up, and placed the muzzle against her temple.

“Do it,” a voice inside her head shouted.

She stood up and fired the gun into the lake, emptying the clip until all she heard was the faint empty clicking sound of the firing mechanism.