Shells are under the kitchen counter. Dump the box on the battered table, scrape a chair over scuffed linoleum. Incandescant lights look oh so warm and friendly. Dump the shells onto the table and load the first clip, ram it into the gun, cock it. Safety off, I rest it on the table.
Muzzle points toward the oh so friendly window.
Fill two more clips. If that can't take it out, nothing I've got will. I'm on the porch waiting for my eyes to adjust to darkness. Something feels so inevitable. Gun goes in my pocket, hand on the grip.