Jamie looked at the road: endlessly long, featureless, boring. Like her life. She looked down at the river. Turbid. Like her head since her mother died.
She patted her jeans back-pocket; heard the crackle of the blister pack. She patted her purse, heavy with her father’s gun. She looked over the parapet.
Which way to go? Let the traffic decide.
Red for the gun. White for the sleeping tabs, prescribed, never taken. Brown for the river.
The next car was green.
Written for What Pegman Saw