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“You know… sometimes I feel that there really is no purpose. We are all just a coincidence, but if that were true, why would the universe create us in the first place. Maybe you do have a plan for all of us. That would be nice. Then I could feel like I am here for a reason… Ah that’s stupid, just me trying to understand what I can’t. I wish I had the answers. Am I supposed to?”
More soot fell on Alex, with a frightening jolt. Alex coughed over and over as his lungs absorbed the debris. For what seemed a long time, he could not control the coughing. He could barely breathe. Finally his throat cleared of the dust, enough for comfort.
Still in his pajamas and bathrobe, with an unshaven face and matted black hair, he went to the study and pulled out several books from the far shelf. As he moved the books he exposed an old cigar box with the image of a Lugar stamped into a metal plate atop it. He pulled out the box and opened it.
Inside was a compact pistol he bought shortly after 9/11 as a paranoid precaution. He pulled out the clip, took out all but seven bullets and put it back into the gun. Then he stuck the gun inside his robe pocket.
Charlie Wulf now had a young girl of fair skin wrapped in his arms and he could not determine what to do. He could not carry her. His old age did not allow it. He could not leave her there and go find help. What would become of her then? What had become of her already? There was no one around. It was late. His world, Boston, was asleep.
Another crack from beyond the tree line, his head jerked up again. “Hello,” he whispered. It was dark. He couldn’t see it coming. With the sound of rapid footsteps, he spun his head around to see, for only a moment, a branch barreling towards his skull. Then there was only black.
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