A shot came from across the street, through the bay windows. One hell of a shot. That son of a bitch Yandle. Damn farmer's son. Leaves from books no student of mine ever read flutter to the floor.
Heads appear from under the heavy oak tables.
I feel it. This is another point, without dimension, infinite in its smallness, containing its chaos in an echo of eternity. They are worried now. I have two bullets left. I don't know now who is alive and who is not.