A set of pearl earrings came out first. Clearly used, perhaps long ago. The gold had blotted; the pearls lost their shine. They still had potential, though. A good wipe could bring them back into shape.

Then, a photograph. It was of me, and my husband Daniel, in black and white, standing on the U.S.S. Texas in 1946. He'd come back from the war a year earlier. Daniel was afraid of flying again but could stomach a ship. We looked so happy then.

Next was a silk white dress. It was the one I wore when we first met. The years showed up in small stains and a tear at the hem. It would do more justice on a younger, leaner woman by now.

Then she pulled out a pillow. That was strange. Why should I care about a pillow? There was something familiar about it, but I couldn't reach it in the back of my mind.

Finally, she produced a newspaper, or rather, a clipping. Daniel's obituary. March 19, 1985. Gone like that. Would I cry again? Wasn't 20 years of pain enough?

"Why are you showing me these things," I asked her.

She spoke no words, but instead backed into the flames. As the curtains burned I felt the heat against my chair. It was all about to be over, and there we were, just thinking it was all about to start. Who knew we were at intermission?

There was an edge to what he said to me. Something sharp in his words.

I thought I was used to this by now. Years of work on the firing line had dulled my response to outbursts. Some prisoners screamed; most cried, or begged for mercy, as if I could give it to them. It bothered me at first. After some time, I had to swallow my senses. We had a job to do, after all.

But his words triggered something in me. Could he see it? That momentary flash in my eye. I wonder. It felt like he was looking into my soul. My finger quivered. It never quivers. Was it my fear? My guilt?

In the end, the result was the same. His body crumpled like the rest did. In a short time his corpse would be taken away. And so it went. I prayed I wouldn't remember him, but a sneaking suspicion told me his words would never leave me.

“Take your shot, stranger. You’ll only get one.”

After some time, hunger ceases to be an urge, a voice, a calling, but rather a dull ache. At this moment, Sean could feel it throughout his entire body. Deep in the pit of his stomach, down to the bones of his tired legs. Every step forward felt uncertain. When his body gave out, would it feel instant, or would he crumple on the ground in agony until his breath left him?

He had been on this road for several days, or perhaps a week already. It was nearly impossible to keep time with the sun hidden behind a thick haze. His watch had stopped working a while ago. He certainly slept, but never fully aware of it.

The ache had been his only companion since he left Los Angeles. Out here the roads were windy, mountainous and mostly desolate, save for the occasional coyote. Food was nearly impossible to find. Broken-down cars of those who had fled would sometimes yield a chocolate square here, a bag of nuts there.

If he was running from something, he wasn't entirely sure what it was yet, or where he was supposed to go. Out here, it was safer to trust no one than to survive.