The doorbell went off.

I froze, willing the intruder to leave. The flat bong of the bell struck at me again.

I’ve spent the last year cutting all my ties. Nobody was looking for me. Nobody needed me. I had dropped my phone service months ago, cancelled my mail. I paid a lump sum to my utility companies with instructions to terminate service when the money ran out.

I did this because connections to things bring obligation. Obligation is like a piece of fishing line with a barbed hook in the end. These ties are hard to see coming, hard to break, and impossible to ignore. Friends and family are the worst, but even casual friends can snag you tightly.

But after a year, I was clean. No hooks. Now, when I can finally go out on my own terms, I get this determined visitor. If I pull the trigger, they get to hear the shot, make a horrifying discovery, and deal with the image for the rest of their lives. I couldn’t do that, not even to some stranger selling magazines. I felt the hook bite.

The doorbell rang again, followed by sharp, determined knocking. A young woman’s voice penetrated the door. “Hey! I know you’re in there, I saw you drive your truck into the garage! I have to talk to you!”

The hook sank all the way in, barb and all. I untucked my shirt and put the pistol behind my back, my belt pressing the now-warm steel into my spine. I didn’t want whoever it was to see the gun laying around.

I went to answer the door.

2

I pulled the door open and fresh morning air rushed past me into the stale house. Standing under the covered porch and on top of my ancient daisy-printed doormat was a young woman in her late twenties. She had auburn hair and dark eyes, and she was rubbing the knuckles of one hand.

“Hi,” she said, before I could speak. “I’m looking for Abraham Griffin. Is he here?” As she spoke she tilted her head slightly to peer behind me into the house. I could feel my face hardening up. The dismissive glance around me, her bright clothes, even her quick, focused movements grated on me.