Antonia sticks to the shadows. She hopes Saul and Sofia will be there. She hopes they will not be there. She moves as slowly as she can bear, as quietly, as carefully as anyone ever has.

In the distance, toward the river, there is a small cloud of seagulls flapping and keening. Recently disturbed.

Sofia.

Antonia stands. She is at the edge of the ocean.

Come on, Carlo says.

Antonia is all storm, all clash and fury. The summer air is still but in her ears wind roars.

—

Sofia and Antonia, playing make-believe, once started a war in Sofia’s bedroom. They vanquished the entire army. They were the only survivors.

—

Antonia can smell Sofia. She is close. There is no time. There is less and less time every moment. Antonia must move impossibly fast. She must move backward in time.

Three figures are standing at the edge of the docks, the edge of the world. One is on his knees. One is holding a gun. One is Sofia.

Antonia can feel everything.

—

The wind comes now, little tendrils of it stirring trash and dust on the docks, making ripples on the water. The clouds cannot get darker but they do, somehow, sealing themselves to the edges of the sky so that rain is the only way out.

—

Antonia is running, with her jellied legs, with blood leaking down her thighs, with her deep soft new-mother skin, the darkness of her eyes.

“Hey!” Antonia shouts. The wind carries her voice.

Tommy turns.

—

When she is twenty feet away from them Antonia stops and plants her feet and raises the gun. Tommy Fianzo Jr. has let his own gun swing down to his side in surprise. When he realizes Antonia has a weapon of her own he puts his hands up by his shoulders and says something like, alright there, sweetheart, no need to do anything rash.

Antonia tightens her finger toward the trigger.

“This won’t end the way you want it,” says Tommy Jr. Saul and Sofia are still, staring. Antonia is moving backward in time.

—

Eighteen years ago, Antonia knows, Carlo was walked up to the edge of these docks. He begged, didn’t he, because he loved his life, because he didn’t want to leave it. He imagined Antonia’s face, Lina’s arms, the ecstatic staccato of one day passing after another. He was absolutely animated, wasn’t he, those last seconds his lungs drew breath. He was halfway through an inhale when the shot was fired. Antonia can picture it perfectly. Carlo’s fervent wish to stay alive.

And a gunshot.

—