Miriam forms her thumb and forefinger into a gun, and points it at the alarm clock. She lets the hammer – her thumb – fall.

"Boom," she says, and–

Click.

The time is now 12.43.

"You have epilepsy, Del?"

The question registers, and she knows now that he does. It explains what's about to happen. A moment of calm strikes him, a kind of serene confusion, and then –

His body tightens.

"And here it is," Miriam says. "The kicker, the game ball, the season ender."

The seizure hits him like a crashing wave.

Del Amico's body goes rigid, and he drops backward, his head narrowly missing the corner of the motel dresser. He makes a strangled sound. He sits upright on his knees, but then his back arches and his shoulder blades press hard against the matted Berber.

Miriam rubs her eye.

"I know what you're thinking," she says as Del's eyes start to bulge like champagne corks ready to pop. "Jeez, why doesn't this broad stick a wallet under my tongue? Couldn't she do me a solid? Or maybe you're thinking, hey, I've had seizures before, and none of them killed me. A guy can't actually swallow his own tongue, right? That's just a myth? Or maybe, just maybe, you think I'm some kind of batshit highway witch with magical powers."

He gurgles. His cheeks go red. Then purple.

Miriam shrugs, wincing, watching it unfold with grim fascination. Not that this is the first time she's seen it.

"Not so, my friendly neighborhood whore-puncher. This is your destiny, to choke on your own mouth meats, to expire here in this God-fucked motel in the middle of Hell's half-acre. I'd do something if I could, but I can't. Were I to put the wallet under your tongue, I'd probably only push the tongue in deeper. See, my mother used to say, 'Miriam, it is what it is.' And this, Del Amico, is that."

Froth bubbles out over Del's ashen lips. The blood vessels in his eyes burst.

Just like she remembers it.

His rigid body goes limp. All the fight goes out of him. His wiry frame slackens, his head tilts at a bad angle, his cheek hits the floor.

Then, insult to injury, the cockroach runs out from under the bed. It uses Del's twisted upper lip as a step ladder, and squeezes its fat little body up into his nostril before disappearing.

Miriam takes a deep breath and shudders.

She tries to speak, tries to say she's sorry, but –

She can't stop it. She runs to the bathroom and pukes in the toilet.

Miriam kneels like that for a while, her head leaning up against the base of the sink. The porcelain feels cool, calming. She smells mint. The clean scent of cheap mouthwash.

It often hits her like this. Like some part of her is dying along with them, some part that she has to gag on and purge and flush away.

And, as always, she knows what will really make her feel better.