The glowing ball sank below the horizon in a stately and mature fashion, sending spangles of blazing red light through the streets. As the city descended into darkness, it called out to me. Wandering my way home, I watched the sunset with one eye. I remembered my first kill in vivid detail. It was the sort of memory that came up sometimes and could not be ignored or thought about halfheartedly. It had occurred to me a few minutes ago and still occupied my mind, sticking to me like a burr. I remembered my mother’s shadow standing over me, watching me, teaching me and guiding me. I remembered that I had been only nine years old. I remembered the dead man—almost a boy—on the ground before me, the one she had to help me with because I wasn’t quite strong enough to squeeze all the air out of his throat. It had been in an apartment, late in the afternoon. I remembered he had a red armchair and a small dog that we locked in the kitchen, and I remembered he had been cooking before we came so the whole apartment had smelled of oregano.
