The siege was in its sixth month and he was tired of hearing the dog across the street barking every morning. He lived in a second story room where he had a view of the stricken units below across the way, including the small enclosure where the dog made it’s incessant rasp heard over and over again each morning. He finally felt justified to waste a single bullet to put an end to the torture. He looked through the sight and pinned the thin, miserable canine in view. Just then he heard a sound outside his door and started, but it was most likely a rat working its way in or out of the wall. He heard the shot late and the sharp yelp below. He looked back out the window and saw the dog half-hidden under a small child slumped inert over it. He hadn’t seen the child. In horror and fear, he flew out his apartment and started running down the stairs, three steps at a time and tripping, fell, breaking his neck and yet he did not die. Nor would he. He laid there and waited. He knew. Wicked spirits would entertain themselves with a paralyzed child killer.
