“How could you be so stupid, Dad?”

The boy backpedaled, at seventeen not yet a match for his father in a fight. He sidestepped the drunken charge, but only halfway. The older man’s momentum carried them both backwards, glancing off a wall, then onto the threadbare sofa. Clumsy, roaring, he landed a blow on his son’s temple and another on his rib cage. He didn’t stop to wonder why the boy wasn’t putting up more of a fight. So he just had time to be surprised when the gun, pulled from under a cushion, was placed between his eyes and fired.

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