“Don’t tell me what to do,” and she hung up on me, oh good I told myself, heart running hard, now you’ve pissed her off. Nothing less predictable than a pissed-off Nakota, and you, dickhead, you had to load the gun, didn’t you. I stood there in my own anger until, looking without seeing, the dull numerics of the clock on the counter turned over: 8:28, shit.
