His old room. Which he barely recognizes. All personal effects cleared out long ago, and he can’t even tell you what they were to begin with. Some toys, he assumes, clothes he can’t picture, something on the walls he remembers vaguely, but nothing he can recall exactly. Only the single bed remains. The room was green, he remembers that, remembers curling up and looking at the green wall as he waited for sleep. Which sometimes came and sometimes didn’t—he remembers that too—but now the wall is white. As if to erase, to bleach, any memory at all.

He retrieves the carton from the hall closet, closes the bedroom door, opens the carton, and riffles through it until he pulls out the Ruger again, holding it up in the dim light and tossing it hand to hand.

It was never his favorite. He preferred the Glock—its weight, firing action, grip, balance, everything. The Glock that was with him his whole adult life until it had its star turn in the courtroom, in the spotlight as Exhibit A, and was now in secure storage somewhere, awaiting his new trial or maybe it was already melted down, scrap metal.

This Ruger was second-class all around. You wouldn’t know it unless you held and shot the Glock. The Ruger was a VW to the Glock’s Mercedes. It was like a second kid—ordinary, unnoticed in the glow of the superstar, but in the absence of the first, you could get to know this one, get to love it, feel affection for the underdog…He smiles.

A polite knock.

“Yeah?” Not bothering to hide the gun or open the door.

“Come get something to eat.”

“Yeah, okay, on my way.”

Like the boy he was twenty years ago, he puts away his toy and heads to dinner.

It is silent. He sees his parents moving cautiously around him. He sees his father making sure to avoid eye contact. He sees his father’s hands shaking. His mother swallowing for her dry throat.

“What the hell, you afraid I’m gonna kill you?”

“We’re afraid you won’t,” says his mother bitterly. “We’re afraid people will discover who Joey Richter’s parents are, and we’ll be hounded forever, and I’ll be accused of giving birth to a monster.”

It shuts everyone up again. He doesn’t remember if that bitterness was always in her personality. He doesn’t remember anything.

“We know who you are,” says Sam.

“What you are,” says Irma.

It’s soup. Not bad. Nice and hot with nice warm bread.

“Yeah? Go ahead. Who am I?” Daring them to say whatever they have to say. Figuring they will go silent and meek with the challenge.

“You’re someone we don’t know, Joey,” says Sam quietly. “Someone we’ve never met.”