Jim Langley pressed the revolver to his temple, committed the scene in front of him to a memory he knew would end in an instant, cocked back the hammer, and pulled the trigger.

     In the instant before the hammer fell, he felt the revolver's barrel against his skin. He felt the lacquered wood of the desk under his left hand. The smoke from a final pipeful still hung in the air, smelling faintly of cherry.

     He saw in extraordinary detail his scarred black Royal typewriter with the letters on the keys worn nearly to oblivion. The piece of paper in the machine read I am ending my life because, with no further words of explanation. Below the typewriter was the textured oak-brown of the desk; above it on the wood-panel wall hung framed magazine covers with rugged heroes and barely-dressed heroines in lurid colors.

     All these details were in the periphery of his vision. At center, on the desktop to the right of the typewriter, was the framed photograph of himself and Sarah. In the picture, his fair hair, craggy features, pale eyes, and tight smile contrasted with her curtain of long hair — almost black there, red in real life ^ndasg; hanging over one eye and shoulder as though she were a movie star, her lipsticked smile lighting up the room.

     Sarah, gone forever.

     Then the revolver's hammer fell.