It was very hot the night I pointed a loaded gun at a living person. It was muggy and I switched on the windshield wipers to see the road as I drove to the house. The radio buzzed urgently. The engine roared and the tires hummed over the sweltering pavement.

There was no moon.

The Berretta 9mm is black and shiny. I lift it, aim it—round chambered, safety off, hammer cocked, finger on trigger. It’s very light.

“Hands, motherfucker. Show me your hands.”

He turns around. He slowly lifts his hands over his head. Blood runs down his arms.

“Get on your fucking knees.”

Mosquitoes buzz in my ears. Everything collapses. Sweat runs down my face. He gets on his knees.

“Kill me,” he says. “Please. Kill me.”