Prologue

A man sits on his leather sofa. His eyes glimmer with contentment as he admires the scene before him. His legs are neatly tucked under a woman’s; his wife’s, perhaps. A child sits beneath them on the floorboards, cross-legged, smiling as the holographic blue and pink of the television flickering wildly in front of their faces. They’re all smiling. 

“Why does he always step on that rake? Can’t he see it?” the child asks, laughing away at the slapstick that plays through the show.

A dog starts barking at the television as the character spews some loud dialogue, and the pair on the sofa shush him, giggling away. 

“Are you sure we should have finished that wine?” 

“Probably not,” the man chuckles in return, “but it was fun, right?”

“Everything is fun with you, darling,” she replies, caressing his face with pure, unmarred adoration. 

His wrinkled hand brushes over the ring on her finger, the ring that signifies their eternal love. The distant city noise from outside is muffled, and the flashing lights blurred by distance, freckling their floor-length window. The apartment is large; large enough to be more than comfortable. And this man knows, in this house, with this family, with her; it could never be better than this.

“Now, kid, let me tell you why in cartoons the character always steps on the rake!” He laughs, leaning over to the child and pointing at the television, before a bullet rips right through his head.