“No, it isn’t. This is in your direction, see? Right here.” And I lower the barrel so it’s point-blank right in the middle of her breastbone. Now she screams. It’s one of those extremely shrill horror-movie-type screams. The party goes silent upstairs. Not a voice can be heard. The music stops. You can’t even hear the dogs whining anymore. The woman from Montana starts shaking her head, twitching it from side to side, and is now making a muffled squealing sound. “Stop twitching,” I tell her, with the barrel of the gun still leveled at her chest. She stops. “You’re not from Montana, are you? Tell the truth.” She closes her eyes and squeezes them so hard that tiny tears burst out from the corners, looking more like sweat than tears. “Tell the truth!” She shakes her head. I start whispering to her for some reason. “I was very, very unhappy back then, when I was shooting starlings in my bedroom. Have you ever been very, very unhappy?” She nods vigorously. “What were you very, very unhappy about?” I ask her. She just shakes her head and keeps smothering her mouth with both hands. “I wasn’t sure what it was, either,” I say. “I never could quite put my finger on it. It’s probably an unfair question, don’t you think? To ask someone why they’re very, very unhappy?” She nods frantically. My daughter’s voice comes from the top of the basement staircase.

“Dad? Are you all right down there?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m fine.”

A Frightening Seizure

A FRIGHTENING SEIZURE