My father convulses once, his body stretched into grotesque rigidity as it arcs above the pavement, then collapses like a deflated balloon. The rest is a blur of heedless violence. Even as I enact it, I am aware that it will come back to haunt me—everything is being recorded by the drones that hover overhead. I reach down, yank the watchman by his belt to pull him off my father, wedge his neck into the crook of my elbow, and squeeze, compressing his carotid artery. He begins to fight me, clawing at my arms, but surprise is on my side, and I am no weakling. His life means nothing to me.
