II.

I wake up shivering, staring at a uniform canvas of stone grey. It takes a few seconds to realize I am looking at the sky. Dusk. Winter has returned.

I sit up slowly, feeling a stiffness around my sternum where the bullet tore through. A clean shot, I note with quiet pride, peering through the hole at the dark treeline behind me. Nokweed will still be smiling about it when I get home for dinner, I’m sure.

Some minutes pass before I finally manage to stand without falling. Blood circulation always seems to favor the spirit over the legs. I pull my tunic tight around myself and retrieve my left sandal from the crown of a thorn bush. I always lose something on impact.

I pass through the gate, and the man from the nightshift bids me a good evening before sealing it shut behind me.

A quiet walk home. Everyone has already returned from work and settled themselves at their tables or before their fires. The days are longer now and the old lamplighter is making his rounds. We nod amicably as I pass, his hands gleaming with kerosene while he replaces a wick in one of the lanterns.

“Don’t recall the last time I saw you,” I say, slowing to chat.

“The Earth is fickle,” he shrugs. “My schedule changes with the whims of her tilt. This morning, for example, she was nearly vertical. Now she’s back to her usual twenty-three and a half degrees.”

“Of course,” I reply. “And what a beautiful morning she gifted us.”

“Sure—a beautiful morning and a pitiable night. She gives only to take away…”

He shakes his head, then glances at the blood caked on my clothes.

“Rifle today, huh?”

“Rifle,” I nod.

“And tomorrow?”

“If my memory isn’t fooling me—I only did just wake up—I believe tomorrow is gas.”

“Gas, you say. Funny coincidence—that’s right up my alley.”

“Yes. My wife has already spoken with your employer. He was kind enough to donate some type of cyanide compound, perhaps you are familiar with it. The hospital has provided us with a mask and bottle.”

The lamplighter nods thoughtfully.

“You know,” he says, “most folks complain about their bosses—that they make too much money, that they never get their hands dirty, that they always find something to whine about. But not me. I’ve worked almost thirty years for mine and have never seen him shy away from any act of kindness or generosity.”

“Yes,” I say. “He has always been a pillar of the community. We are surely lucky to have him.”

The lamplighter nods gravely. From the crease of his brow I can see he is now pondering the passage of time—where it all went, what it was all for. These are not profound thoughts; they yield no answers. But they do stir a profound feeling inside him, a feeling that he experiences as an overwhelming tingling in his throat.

He swallows. At last his gaze settles on the tip of his finger where a single bead of kerosene is about to drip—but, just before it does, he brings the finger to his lips and sucks up the drop.

“No point letting it go to waste,” he says. “Goodnight.”

“Same to you,” I reply.