Fuzzy Navel

11:53 P.M.
MARY
MARY OPENS HER EYES.

She’s lying on the floor, and there’s tremendous pressure on her leg, accompanied by a dull ache.

A bullet wound?

“I need a fucking vacation.”

“Harry?”

That’s the pressure. Harry’s fallen on top of her.

“Mom? You got those codeine pills on you? Gimme about ten.”

“Were you shot?” Mary asks.

“I don’t think so. Only holes I got in me are the ones that are supposed to be there.”

“You’re on my leg, dear.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Harry moves, and the pressure is replaced by the pins and needles sensation of blood returning. Mary sits up and rubs her leg with both palms.

Gunshots. From the garage.

Jacqueline.

Mary looks around, spies the large handgun on the floor next to the dead man. She crawls over to it, clasps it between her hands. She tries to curl her fingers around it, but they won’t cooperate.

“Give it here, Mom.” Harry takes it in his left hand and points it at the refrigerator door. “Stand back.”

Mary obeys. Harry fires at the door handle, and it shears away, releasing his prosthetic claw.

“Should have done that to begin with,” he says. “Where’s Jack?”

“Garage, with the other sniper.”

Harry puts a protective arm around Mary, hustles her into the kitchen.

“Stay down, Mom. I’ll be back in a second, right after I give that son of a bitch a lead enema.”

Harry gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, then runs off.

That’s my boy.