This would probably be it for me. I framed my thoughts around my daughter, particularly a mental image I had of Linney with her mother, strolling toward me after they had gone for a morning walk around our neighborhood. I wanted to take it with me . . .

. . . as I pulled the trigger with my left hand.

I heard a clank, but there was no explosion. I fired over and over again. Nothing.

I had only one bullet left. Sucking a thread of air up through the hole and into my abraded lungs, I struggled back to Gunther and somehow said, “I don’t know if I hit the gas tank, I can’t see. I need a fuse. All we have is your clothing.”

“My uniform,” he said.

I pointed the gun at his crotch. “Your tie and shirt.”

I carried them back across the truck as if they weighed three hundred pounds and I weighed more.

Could you set fire to a tie by shooting it with a gun? I didn’t know. I had only one bullet to help me find out. I prayed that gasoline was trickling underneath us. If that was the case, one good spark—

I suddenly pictured Gunther trying unsuccessfully to light a cigarette by the desk in the bungalow. I fumbled for his shirt pocket.

The box had six wooden matches. I struck one and tried to set fire to the tie. It didn’t want to burn. I struck two at the same time and got the tip ignited. I eased it down through the airhole, waiting until the flame became a plume before I let it drop.

I tore a strip of cloth from the silver shirt, but it wouldn’t light. The carbon monoxide snuffed out the flame even as it ignited. I tried again. This time the match itself didn’t want to ignite. I moved closer to the airhole so that the match would have the benefit of a little more oxygen, and it lit. I lowered the shirt strip through the hole until I was holding only the tip, and touched the flame to it. The shirt began to burn and I dropped it, hoping that the fresh air would help the flame rather than blow it out.

I still had one bullet left. I’d try to fire straight down. Hopefully there was some gasoline directly below me.

I smiled as I remembered that if luck was with me, I’d be dead in another few seconds. I looked back at Gail, said Linney’s name, and shot the gun.

Nothing happened, except for all hope leaving my heart.

I crawled back to Gail, leaned against the wall, and took her in my arms.

There was a ringing, a singing in my ears. Not of any voice I knew. High-pitched, like violins that could speak. They were singing what I used to sing to Linney, when I’d push her so high . . .