In the bedroom, he opened the revolver to ensure one chamber was occupied. Spinning the cylinder, he lay on the bed. No need to cover walls with matter that once archived memory. Today’s workplace uniform or tomorrow’s burial attire hung on the closet door.
“Hundred and twenty-two.” Remi thought spitting out the barrel. “What are the fucking chances?”
He enjoyed doing the math. How sweet each day was when lived like it’s your last.