The first shot came as Shirley hung laundry in the dry desert air. The sound didn’t makes sense, so out of context with the peaceful summer day. The second bullet tore a hole through her percale top sheet.

"You ready to die, Shirley?"

She turned to see her husband standing in the doorway of their home. “Joe! What the hell are you doing, old man?””

Joe raised the gun again. Without another word, Shirley turned and ran toward an old tool shed, the only shelter within a mile. She stumbled and fell as a shot pierced the air where her body had been a moment before. She crawled the remaining distance, over jagged stones and dried vegetation that scraped the skin from her arms and knees, desperate to reach the shed.

A bullet landed to her right, close enough to throw desert shrapnel into her eyes. Tears welled up, washing the dust particles from her eyes and threatening to become a hysterical torrent. She reached the tin sanctuary of the shed and collapsed in its coolness.

Joe cursed, "What you hdin' for, goddamn you, Shirley? Thought you were all fucking set to die."

Shirley struggled for breath as fatigue washed over her. Where had this come from? She and Joe had already been through the standard responses: Denial, second and third opinions, a search for alternative cures, prayer, anything to call hope. But, three months after the diagnosis, acceptance was all she had left.

At the first mention of a funeral, Joe got angry. "I'm not ready to bury you. You in a hurry to die?"

"Joe, maybe we'd better tell the kids. I think you're going to need them."

Instead, he headed to town and found relief in a bottle of bourbon. One bottle after another had kept him company since. And now this.

The cool refuge from Joe's madness soon became stifling as the sun heated the metal shell. Breathing was a struggle in the stale air. Shirley's cuts began to sting as sweat mixed with dust and blood.

"Shirley? Get out here. Let's get this fucking thing over with."

Shirley jumped as a metallic twang well above her and several feet to the right let in a stream of mote-filled sunlight. She was scared. She needed water. She needed her husband to regain his sanity.

““Joe?”” she shouted to him. ““Joe, can you hear me?””

““Yeah, Shirl. Sorry. I only got one more bullet. Didn’t think I’d need so many. We got any in the house?””

““No. No, we don’t. Why are you doing this? Can I come out now?””
““Sure. Get a better shot that way.””

She heard a vehicle turn onto the gravel driveway leading to their front stoop. A truck door slammed and she heard their neighbor Henry ask, "What's going on, Joe? I heard shots. What the hell you shooting at?"

"Shirley."

"Shirley? What the fuck? Put the gun down, Joe."

"Henry, you just go on home. This ain't none of your concern." He raised the gun towards the shed and made to pull the trigger.

Henry smacked at the gun and the bullet missed the shed.

““Dammit, Henry. That was my last bullet.””

Inside the shed, Shirley stood, brushed off her clothing, and patted her hair into place. Shading her eyes with her hand, she left the shed.

"Henry? Thanks for coming by. Don't worry. The old man knows it ain't my day to die."

Henry looked from Shirley back to Joe. "You don't want to do this, Joe," he said.

"Give Henry the gun, Joe. Let's go inside and have some lemonade. I'm dying of thirst."

"No you ain't. You're dying of that goddamn cancer."

She looked into the squint of his eyes. "Joe? It's okay. It'll be okay."

Joe let the gun go and Henry stepped forward and grabbed it before it hit the ground.

"You always said I'd be the death of you." Tears streamed down Joe's cheeks. "Why'd you go and lie to me?”