The barrel’s so long, the hole so big and black and forever. To get this right she’s leaning forward, bending her head, mouth open.

  The metal’s cold but clean. The barrel digs into the roof of her mouth, the front sight splitting her lower lip.

  It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters any more. It never did.

  Her eyes water when she pushes the shotgun higher, tearing into the flesh so she knows exactly where it is, making sure the angle’s just right. That’s all she wants…something to be right. For once. Please.

  All she needs is ten pounds of pressure. Ten pounds and all of her pain will be gone. No more thoughts ever again.

  She’s got the meaty part of her thumb on the trigger. She’s closing her eyes.

  Ten pounds isn’t much. Just a quick shove. A quick shove and everything stops. No more Brightside.

  A bead of sweat’s running down her nose, the one that’s now in pieces. Her mouth’s filled with saliva. It’s dribbling out the corners, down her chin, just like when I tried to make her drink in The Cabin. She needs to hurry. Almost there.

  She’s thinking goodbye, no one around to hear. She’s thinking sorry for all the men who put her through hell. She’s picturing me, her father, the lacrosse team. She’s putting more pressure on the trigger.

  It’s now or never…

  The loudest bang, but she only hears one-tenth. All her problems blasting out of her head. Then silence. Peace.

  Holding Rachel got me thinking about Steven. A few days after he passed, his parents had a funeral. There was some old Chinese lady playing a harp, the women wearing veils, the men holding them tightly, rubbing their arms for comfort. Steven’s mom even rented a swan to waddle around and stretch its neck as they lowered Steven’s little casket into the ground.

  I’d begged Dad not to make me go, but he said every man needs to face death, it’s coming whether we like it or not. Steven’s mom threw herself on the casket. Steven’s dad pried her off. I’d never heard such screams. The swan apparently hadn’t either and started attacking Steven’s aunt. Dad told me to help, and the thing bit my hand and took off for the pond.

  Still, Steven got a proper burial. Something I couldn’t give Rachel. If I had called anyone, they’d find the shotgun and they’d drug and interrogate me until I cracked. Dad would finally get his wish to be in Brightside, but no one else would ever leave. They’d find the cave, seal it off, and we’d all be stuck. Things would change. They’d bring more Boots, more cameras, making sure none of us tried anything like this again.

  I stared into Love-A-Lot’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But people are depending on me, and I’ve already let too many people down.”

  I lifted what was left of Rachel into my arms and carried her to the closet. Then, with my parent’s voices telling me time was running out, I started cleaning, put on some yellow rubber gloves. I started with the big chunks, tossing them into a black trash bag, each piece plopping onto the one before. I ran out of paper towels, had to use the extra set of sheets. I kept pouring bleach, scrubbing the floors, never really getting all the blood and bits, just sort of swirling it around and around.

  I took two showers, dug my nails into the soap, scrapping out the little flecks of Rachel. I scrubbed so hard at my skin I thought I’d reach bone. Then I air-dried because I’d used both bath towels on the floor. I brushed my teeth and combed my hair like it was any other morning here in Brightside. Everything’s fine. Just going to work.

  I swept the last puddles towards the kitchen, made sure there was nothing left that could leak into the hall. I stood in front of the open closet, told Rachel I was sorry, that this would all be over soon. Someone would take her to the cemetery, bury her like she deserved. Then I closed the door.

  The sun was beginning to rise, soft reds and yellows sifting up from the darkness. Day 100 had officially been going for hours, but it wasn’t until the sun took its place above the horizon, that this really began.

  * * *

  Sara finally comes back into the office right after lunch. She looks like she’s just witnessed an execution. For a second, I wonder if I’m thinking about Rachel, but I’m not. I’m just staring at Sara, wondering what the hell happened. She picks up the rose off her desk, the one meant for Rachel, the one from Alex.

  “I’m going to be going away for a while.” Her voice so soft and confused it’s as if she’s still refusing to believe it. “The Council decided I need some time in The Cabin.”

  “For what? You haven’t done anything.”

  “The roof is off-limits and I broke the rule.” She turns to me, already in my head. She smiles. “Don’t worry, you’re fine. Sharon informed them it was part of your treatment. You’ve been cleared of all infractions.”

  “Sara, you don’t have to go. I can talk—”

  She shakes her head like she’s trying to fling out every single thought of mine, every moment we shared. “Don’t!”

  “Sara…”

  “No, Joe, you’ve done enough already. And it’s my fault. My fault for thinking…”

  Sara, you don’t understand. Everyone’s leaving. Tonight. This place won’t be safe. It’s your last shot.

  No, Joe. It’s yours. I’m not coming.

  Sara wipes the mascara running down her cheek. “Now, I have a few hours to spend with Danny so I’m going to go.” She gets to the door, opens it, but stops. She’s thinking of asking me to stay, to put an end to this before I get myself killed. Then she wonders if things wouldn’t be better that way. She clicks her teeth, upset at herself, at me. She leaves, never once looking back.

  * * *

  I find Sharon in her office. She’s with this frail Spanish man, one of the new Brightsiders.

  I shout at her, “What the hell did you do?”

  “Hello, Joe, as you can see I’m with a patient.”

  The little Spanish man stares at me with his sad eyes, but mine are locked on Sharon’s. “You can’t do this,” I tell her. “You can’t send Sara—”

  “Let’s lower our voices.” Unless you want to go with your girlfriend? That can be arranged, you know?

  I realize the Spanish man speaks no English. He says, “Debo ir?”

  “No,” Sharon says. “Joe’s leaving.”

  “No, no estoy,” I tell her. Then I turn to the man and say, “Salir!”

  The man picks up his hat from his lap and scurries out of the room.

  Sharon forces a smile and closes the door. “Glad to see those tapes are paying off.”

  “You can’t lock her away in—”

  Quiet! You want us all to end up in there? Now, just let—

  Why did you do this?

  Because she was never going to come.

  You don’t know that.

  Actually, I do. And she knows too much. It’ll get her hurt. She’ll be safe there.

  Safe?

  Yes.

  And Danny?

  He’ll be joining her shortly.

  Sharon and her perfect plan. I realize I have no idea who this woman is. First she’s spewing New Age bullshit. Now’s she’s the leader of a revolution.

  No one’s ever what they seem on the surface.

  “You need to go back to work,” Sharon says. “Finish the day.”

  I picture my office, Sara’s desk, the one that used to be Rachel’s.

  Rachel…crumpled in my closet like some disfigured sex doll.

  Sharon’s eyes widen, horrified. She has no idea. It wasn’t part of her plan. Sharon’s not perfect after all. She just made herself believe she could handle things. Just like I made myself believe I could pull this off.

  Joe…

  But I want nothing to do with Sharon’s thoughts. I walk out, head back to my office.

  People pass by my door, which is thankfully closed. I hear Carlos so I click out of solitaire. I can’t tell how many people are with him, but I guess three or four. The high heels either Frances or Gloria. That laugh, all Alex. Poor Alex, thinking his rose is going to win Rachel’s heart. I consider telling him he can have it. It’s just sitting in my closet, inside Rachel’s chest.

  Carlos and the others start laughing, wanting everyone to hear how happy they are. I open my sales spreadsheet and customer list so it looks like I’m working. I don’t even know why I’m still pretending, but I’m on automatic. Shock does that to me. It’s keeping me from losing it. I start rearranging pictures of condos into regions. The two-bedroom with the kitchenette is South America. The penthouse with the hammocks on the balcony go in the Australia/New Zealand pile. Everything in its little place. Everything separated like Brightsiders from normals; Sharon’s secret club and those better off in The Cabin. People like Sara and Danny.

  Alex speaks way too loud, same as always. “What do you say, Carlos? Oscar’s for dinner?”

  Carlos is right outside my door. “I don’t want to make plans yet,” he said. “I have a feeling about today.”

  I sit up and wonder if Carlos is one of Sharon’s elite, the chosen few who get to leave. I asked Sharon why not everyone. She said there were too many liabilities, too many who’d already become institutionalized. Part of that was her fault. Her Zen bullshit actually convinced some of these pathetic souls Brightside was for the best, that they’d never want to leave if they just opened themselves up to the possibilities, the wonder of this mountain town. Sadly, that’s exactly what is going to happen to these poor fucks. They’ll never leave, not after today.

  Carlos knocks, I put the phone to my ear. He pops his head in, sees me nodding.

  “…Yes, right on the beach, where you can rent jet skis,” I say to my imaginary client.

  Carlos whispers, “How’s it going?”

  I give him the thumbs up.

  Carlos winks, closes the door. His shirts are always vertical stripes. Today’s is red, makes him look like a candy cane.

  I have to piss, but they’re all still standing there, asking what everyone’s plans are for the weekend. I want to go out and say a few of us will be dead at the bottom of the mountain. Might even get a few bullet holes if we’re up for it. The rest can forget about sleeping in. They’ll be in The Cabin soon enough.

  My bladder’s throbbing, but I wait until the laughter’s gone. I take a peek, see a clear shot to the hallway bathroom, start humming to block everything out. My pace makes me more conspicuous than if I set myself on fire, but I make it to the urinal in the back corner, away from Lenny popping a zit in the mirror. I aim at the drain, counting off random numbers so I can’t think about anything else. Lenny leaves. I stuff myself back in my pants, walk over to the sinks, and do my best not to look at the mirror. Men don’t cry in bathrooms, at least when there’s a chance another dude might come in.

  I wash my hands and notice a small dribble of blood where my thumbnail disappears into the skin. I scrub and scrub and scrub, seeing Rachel’s faceless body, my hands swirling around the contents of her head on the floor. When I take my thumb out from under the water, I realize it’s my blood, not Rachel’s, because the blood dribbles out again.

  I’m drying my hands when Wendell, top salesman for the past three months, hurries in, all four hundred pounds of him between me and the wall, saying excuse me as he sticks his hands under the faucet, his massive paws splashing water all over the counter.

  There are three paper towels left. I wait for Wendell to finish and hand them to him, so he can finally take a piss. Wendell won’t touch his dick unless he washes his hands. I have no idea why, just his thing.

  Wendell’s spraying the blue cake, thinking about the weekend, possibly barbecuing a nice burger in the Brightside park.

  There’s no way Wendell’s a part of Sharon’s plan. I suddenly feel sorry for him, that big dumb bear. Stuck here with all the rest of the ones Sharon decided are too risky.

  Wendell still hates me for what happened at the bar when I let out all my thoughts about everyone, all my judgments. I give him a smile to apologize, to say goodbye.

  He looks at me like I’m hitting on him and quickly exits, not even thinking he should wash after handling himself.

  The emergency exit is down the hall on the other side of the bathrooms. I consider heading for it, taking it to the roof so I can perform Paul’s plunge, but with the helicopter still hovering, I won’t even make it to the ledge.

  This is the helicopter Sharon says I have to take care of, as if I have any chance. Most likely, I’ll end up in smaller pieces than Rachel. That’s probably what Sharon wants. After barging into her office, I’m proving to be the biggest risk of all. It’s probably just another part of Sharon’s clusterfuck of a plan, to use me as a scapegoat. Everything’s accelerated because of Wayne. Since he broke out, the Boots have been patrolling, searching for anything amiss, for his crazy ass.

  Sheriff Melvin has disabled a lot of the cameras, according to Sharon. It’s why they haven’t found Wayne. It’s buying us time, just like all the bleach in my room. But the Boots will eventually fix the cameras so we have to be ready. A big spotlight will be put on every nook and cranny. The whole town won’t be able to sneeze without someone watching. They’ll see us gathering, find the mineshaft. Our one dumb shot at escape will be gone, and anyone in Sharon’s special club will be locked away, some in The Cabin, the others down with the orange jumpsuits.

  Sharon and I will end up together, most likely underground. The rest of my days with that fucking lunatic, who truly believes she’s a revolutionary. I can’t deny she’s been impressive. For almost two years she’s integrated, assimilated, wedged her skinny butt into everything Brightside. I can’t imagine trying to pretend for that long. I couldn’t even keep Sara from Rachel, couldn’t tell Rachel I loved her. I’m the fucking coward Dad always warned me about.

  “The crazy leads the men to battle, but the coward gets them killed.”

  I’m not going to make it if I keep thinking like this. I have to stay positive, get through the day. That’s what Dad also said. “Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. And if it doesn’t come, then your worries are over.”

  I can’t do anything but worry. It doesn’t help being trapped in my office, hearing my coworkers out there bitch about the coffee, the cold weather, the lack of selection in the vending machine. They have no idea what’s happening around them, but it’s probably for the best. It’s the little things that keep us from putting a shotgun in our mouths and blowing out our wonderfully gifted brains.

  That’s what I’m thinking as the clock refuses to budge. Rachel ran out of distractions, the inconsequential crap that keeps us from seeing how awful our lives really are. She knew I didn’t love her, that no one ever would, not like she needed. So she took control, found the only foolproof way out of Brightside.

  I keep picturing the night I visited Rachel in The Cabin, her sitting there so quiet and peaceful, each moment a gentle breeze. Not like now, the wind gone, everything still, Rachel shoved in next to Dad’s broken fishing pole.

  Broken Rachel, broken gifts. I just can’t stop breaking things. It’s what I do.

  Yes, Rachel was broken when I met her. Then The Cabin broke her more. But I had to go and finish the job.

  Next, it’ll be Sara. Then Danny. Stupid, happy Danny, the only person who’s truly able to find good in anything. But The Cabin will end that. They’ll inject him, make him swallow the meds, and they’ll kill the only spirit in Brightside worth saving. The idea of them destroying that gets me to my feet. I still have an hour left of work. Carlos might call the Boots, but fuck it. Let them sound the alarm. This is the only chance I’ve got to make things right.

  * * *

  The wind cuts across my face and makes my eyes water, so it looks like I’m crying as I walk through the Square. I have my headphones on and the people I pass think I’m on one of my strange walks, only now I’m apparently working out to music that makes me weep. I don’t care. I just need to get to Danny, need to tell him to talk some sense into his sister. He’s the only one who can get through to her. I’m sure he’s scared right now as Sara tells him she’s going to The Cabin. She’s probably telling him to be strong, that it’s the only way they can get through this.

  Lodge Two is just up ahead. I start to slow my pace. There’s a car parked out front, and an ambulance. I’m too late. I start running. I can imagine Danny fighting off the Boots trying to protect his sister. I see the gun pressed to the side of his head, him screaming for Sara as they drag her from the room. I see the Boots crushing his ribs, kicking in his belly.

  But as I rush in, there’s only one person in the hallway. Blue jeans and black windbreaker, cell phone to his ear. He’s pacing outside of a room near the stairs, the opposite end of Danny and Sara’s room.

  I usually stay away from the Boots, but this guy’s young and doesn’t look that dangerous with his aw-shucks face. Plus, morbid curiosity is all I seem to be seeking these days.

  I pass the elevator when he turns my way. He holds the phone to his chest and points over my shoulder. “You need to turn around.”

  I’ve never seen him before, but it’s obvious he’s weirded out. Whatever is in the room isn’t good. I walk closer.

  The guy tries to use his big boy voice. “Did you not hear me? I said turn around.”

  I stop four feet from him, close enough to know he isn’t counting numbers or singing songs. He can’t get the image of the rope out of his head, the rope on the other side of the door. I nod past him. “Whose room is that?”

  “None of your damn business.” He’s not good at this and thinks of Robert.

  I reach for the door and he jumps back like I’m attacking. His right hand slips inside his jacket. “Stay back.” This poor kid’s shaking, has no idea what he’s doing. He’s scared, and it’s going to get me shot. Light reflects off his wedding band a few inches below the gun’s barrel. “D-d-don’t take another step.”

  My voice gets real calm, like I’m trying to put him to sleep. “I know him,” I say. “You don’t need to point that at me.”

  He starts counting to himself, just like they trained him, to keep us out of the loop. He realizes he looks like an idiot aiming at a shithead like me and his fear gets washed out by embarrassment. “Calm down, sir,” he says, even though I’m the calmest I’ve been in months.