I was alone in the old house, emptying out the drawers. There in the buffet in the dining room, where he used to keep his Sen-Sen and his wide collection of working and nonworking flashlights, was my father’s gun. Not his gun, but my grandfather’s or great-grandfather’s gun, the one I’d heard about for years, the one my father used to take out in the car with him when he made house calls, then hid somewhere in the garage. Not a Luger, after all, but a Mauser, wooden-handled and antique. So I aimed it at the floor and pulled the trigger and was stunned to hear the hard, flat sound of an explosion in my ears, to smell the peppery gunpowder smell, to see the long brown scar the bullet dug in my mother’s carpet. Yes, it’s me again, still here, still doing something wrong.