The man stank of death. Though if he was already dead or merely on the way, I couldn't tell. It didn’t matter. Whatever he drank was guaranteed to kill him, but we were there to see it to the end. My hair in braids. Red panties. The body slumped, oozing onto the rug. We sat and I passed Amelia the flask. She drank it down, our names disappearing with the alcohol. SWAT on the rickety metal steps of the Shooting Star Motel. Time slowed. Two knocks. It was over, as we had known it would be from the very beginning.