He looked at her hands for a weapon.

Nothing in her hands.

The programmed robotic voice called from behind Fortin – “shoot-don’t shoot” – as the woman pleaded: “He’s going to kill me! Help! He’s going to kill me!”

A large male appeared at the darkened doorway. “Come back here!” Stained sleeveless T-shirt, rope-like veins in muscular tattooed arms, one rising, outstretched, and aiming at the woman.

What’s in his hand?

The programmed voice urged: “Shoot-don’t-shoot.”

What’s in the man’s hand? Is he pointing his finger or a gun? Who’s standing behind him? Any other people in the hall?

Fortin had no time and called: “Police officer! Put your weapon down!” The man’s face contorted into a malevolent mask as he yelled: “Woman, you’re going to die!” Fortin’s eardrums throbbed, the music, the shouting, increasing the stress, he side-stepped, crouched, feeling the smooth trigger, training his gun on the suspect.

Fortin saw clearly that the man was holding a gun.

“Police! Drop the weapon!”

The man refused.

The robotic voice: “Shoot-don’t-shoot.”

Steady your grip. Focus. Look at the suspect. Is the threat real? Your gun is death in your hand. You’re going to kill someone.

Don’t shoot or shoot? Is the threat real?

Decide now!

All in a heartbeat, you are going to kill someone.

Fortin squeezed one, two, three, four, five times. The suspect went down. In just a few seconds, Fortin had saved one life and taken another.

He lowered his gun.

Exhaled. His pulse rate peaked.

“Good. Will, you made the proper decision,” Turl said. “Take a few seconds for a break and we’ll go through some more.”

For more than an hour, Turl put him through scenario after scenario, pursuits, gun-jammings, hostages, malls, schools, and two new deadly domestic situations.

He’d gotten through them all.

“You scored high. You passed everything,” Turl told him as he made notes. “You did well, Will.”

Maybe on paper, but not in his head.

When it was over, Fortin was depleted and his insides were churning. He was so unsteady that he couldn’t make the drive home to Lone Tree. He called Cathy with an excuse about staying overnight in Calgary, getting together with friends and went to a hotel.

But he’d met no one.

He’d bought a bottle of whiskey and that night he sat alone in his room with the lights off, staring at Calgary’s skyline, drinking as tears webbed down his face.

How many people had he shot that day?

Even if it was simulated death, he was still killing people.

Fortin contemplated their faces and imagined their lives, for they were lives he took. He thought about them until he drifted into a tortured, fitful sleep.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sleeping when he’d sensed a presence in his room.