He wrote out his checks for the last time, afixed the stamps and clipped them to his rusty wrought iron mailbox for pickup. He washed his bowl and spoon and took out the trash. He put one bullet into his handgun and sat on his bed to think. He peeked out his bedroom window at the family across the street. I picked that very moment to launch a shrill tirade at my husband. That must have done it for him: even with the windows wide open we didn't hear the shot.