Company, inspired by my actions, turns upon the intruders, and Listening Room fills with the sounds of punching and oofing, heads being knocked against walls, men choking other men, women gasping, shocked to find themselves yanking back the hair of other women.

Company possesses superior numbers; is imbued with the confidence of wealth; is not inclined to lose, having decided long ago to cushion itself within abundance and thus keep loss at bay.

But then Lauren, dear Lauren, formerly so gentle, strides across Listening Room, punches Mrs. U. in the face, screaming that once she, Lauren, had a baby, baby Stuart. She remembers it all now, bitch! Mr. U. goes to Mrs. U.’s aid and Craig, from behind, kicks him down. The Singers surge forward, wailing melodically. Adult son Mike is left, by them, in a heap by the door; Jed, bleeding from the mouth, struggles to rise from a wall against which two Consortium members have thrown him; Jean, elbowed in the face by the female Singer who earlier required the Ativan but now seems abundantly confident, wanders between two folding chairs, muttering, seemingly lost.

How strange it is to see these dear, familiar friends of mine (Mr. U., Mrs. U., Jean, Jed) brought so low.

By other dear, familiar friends of mine (Lauren and Craig).

The gun hangs heavy in my hand.

I was born not of a gigantic woman but a human-sized mother. I know that now. I, possibly, had a wife. I must have loved her but have no memory of her. Who I love now is Mrs. U., of the lovely biting kiss. I will not see her hurt, for all that we have shared. And do not wish to see Mr. U. hurt, he who has taken me, on so many occasions, to places of such delicious, exalted expressiveness. But also, I do not wish to see Lauren and Craig, lifelong pals and co-creators, hurt, yet know that, should they fail in this, they must bear the full brunt of Company’s crushing, retributive power.

Mrs. U. pulls away from Lauren, crawls toward me, somehow elegant even in this.

“Jeremy,” she says pitiably. “Please save us.”

How can I refuse her, the source of the greatest joy I have ever known? The intruders will kill her. They will. They were on the brink of doing so, and will, should they prevail.

In her (blue-green) eyes, I see: desire, acceptance, a warm assurance that if I hand her the gun, she will do what is right.

For the two of us.

For all of us.

I hand her the gun. She hands it to Mr. U., who orders the White Cap Consortium, Lauren, Craig, and the Singers to the floor. Soon everyone but Company is down there with the fallen portly men and the two I killed, who are posed, now, in death, in attitudes of wild dancing: the yellow-sneakered girl seems to be tossing the notebook across to the leader, who seems about to catch it.