Two nights ago PC and I were sitting watching TV.

Blam blam blam blam blam blam blam blam!

Just like that, like drums, an utterly deliberate and emphatic expression. 

"That was scary," said PC.

"Yeah," I said. I was eating a big bowl of rice and lentils and beans, sitting deep in the fake Eames chair. "As long as they're not aiming at us."

"Eight shots," he said. Like the number might mean something.

"Yeah?" I wasn't sure he was right. It seemed high. But he probably was. They came in a hurry.

"Have you heard gunfire around here—"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, so have I."

"That is scary," I asserted, feeling like my first reaction had somehow been too flip. I wanted to hear myself say it was scary before my next mouthful of rice, my next sip of wine. And I imagined where it must have all gone down to have echoed so loudly among the buildings outside our window—103rd Street? Mad? In my head I saw the arm, the hand and the gun; the body falling and the killer run.