“Reality’s a helluva a drug,” he says, and I hate to admit it, but he’s right. I don’t think he means it in the same way I do, but to be honest, I don’t know how he means it, and it doesn’t matter. The world looks better than it ever has, despite the awkward view.

The click of the pistol’s hammer latching into place is more akin to the hands of intricate clock tower innards than of a pawn shop piece that’s only good for causing trouble.

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