He squeezed his eyes shut to push away the burning tears. Cold, stiff cloth covered the gurney, scratchy against his skin. Thick leather straps bound hand and foot, and another across his abdomen. The gurney had been tilted, so that he lay almost at a 45 degree angle, facing a terrible white curtain.

He winced as the needles pierced either arm, bored, impersonal technicians readying him. Off to the side, a doctor stood with his face carefully impassive. He opened his eyes as the guard at the curtain drew it aside, and beyond the window I could see the smears of a dozen faces watching expectantly. Hard to make out features due to the glare of florescent lights.

“Steven Patricks, you have confessed to the murder of Heather Kendall,” came the Warden’s voice. He couldn’t remember his name. “And by the ruling of the State of Oklahoma, you have been sentenced to death by lethal injection. Have you any last words?”

He shook, frightened, and looked from the warden to the window.

“Who’s…who’s H-Heather Kendall?”