He stepped forward in the confidence of a dream. The boards of the steps and porch creaked under foot as he approached the door. These events weren’t happening to him, but to someone else.

He thrust his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, balling up both into fists so tight, the nails dug into the palms. With his right hand, he felt for the gun, less for reassurance of its power than its solid reality. The gun answered his grip with mute metallic coolness. He knocked. But there was no immediate answer. Inside, he could hear muffled voices, seeming to bite and scratch at each other. He waited a moment, then raised his fist to knock again, just as the bolt was unlatched from the other side.

The door was opened by a woman, short and grey, dressed in a greasy house dress. She loo...

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