What’s a guy gonna say to that? Especially seeing as it’s likely true.

Wish I had that gun.

The phone on his desk buzzes. He presses a button on it and picks up the handset.

– Yes. I’ll send him up. Yes, Mr. Predo.

He closes his eyes, frowns.

– Yes, I will, sir. Unforgivable. It won’t happen again.

He puts the phone down, opens his eyes, keeps the frown.

– Mr. Predo will see you now.

I get up.

– And we were just getting to know each other so well.

He looks me in the eye.

– And I am to offer my apologies for my threats. I went far beyond the limits of my duties. A simple request not to smoke would have been more than enough.

He sits, picks up his pen and starts pretending to do something in an appointment book.

I walk to his desk and stand there.

He looks up.

– Yes?

– I never heard the actual words I’m sorry.

His fingers tense, the stainless steel barrel of his pen flattens between them.

– I’m sorry.

I tap invisible ash onto his desktop and make for the doorway that leads to the stairs.

– Keep your fucking apology. First time I get the chance, I’m gonna see how many bullets I can fit in that empty head of yours.

He presses the buzzer that lets me pull the door open, masking whatever it is he’s muttering about my mother.

Like I ever gave a shit about her.

– I’m wondering, Pitt.

I’m remembering what it was like when I was a kid, the handful of times I attended school, the way those days inevitably ended in the principal’s office or a police station. The lectures. The rhetorical questions. The, What were you thinking? The, How do you expect to get anywhere doing things like that? The, Is this how you act at home? The, Do you think you’re scoring any points with that attitude?