Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. He had a narrow escape, however; for, passing within an inch of him, the bullet burried itself deeply in the wall. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. At this terrible juncture, Jack maintained his composure,—a smile played upon his face before the cap was drawn over it,—and the last words he uttered were, "My poor mother! I shall soon join her!" The rope was then adjusted, and the cart began to move. It’s an instinct. ‘I thought as how it couldn’t do no harm, and as it turns out, it done me a bit of good. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world. He returned the locket without comment.
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