“Like intrusive thoughts,” I say. “I can’t stop them. I pick a weapon, and I imagine killing people.” “You pick a weapon.” He speaks slowly. “Whatever’s around. I get creative.” His lips twitch. Maybe in amusement, maybe in fear. I don’t know which one I’m rooting for. “Which weapon did you choose in here?” “The glass first.” I point to it. “That wouldn’t kill you, though. So, the knife.” I touch my own throat. “Then the lamp.” “The lamp?”
