The snout of the .45 shifted direction slightly, the barrel pointing now at Wishbone's bare chest. The distance between them—about sixteen feet. Wish continued to shuffle toward Delaney, inching almost, talking as his feet scuffed the floor. Delaney stood there silently, looking calm and relaxed, the cigarette drooping off his lips, smoke curling lazily upward in the humid air.
Wish rapped, “I've been in the jungles. I've been in the cities. I've looked in men's faces when they've been afraid. Of everything. Of me. I've seen death. I've delivered it, man. I'm sick of it. I just can't let you do that,” Wish said, laughing nervously. “I just can't,” he pleaded. “Don't you see? It just screws everything up. I mean, everything I've been trying to do here.” He contorted half-laughing and half-
