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twice with the shotgun butt and Wil tumbled out into snow. When he got to his feet, he was looking into a gun barrel.
    “You’re thinking if you’re not who I want, I’ll let you go,” said the man. “When in fact, if you’re not the outlier, I’m going to shoot you and leave your body in the snow.”
    “I’m the outlier.”
    “Eighteen months ago, where did you live?”
    “Broken Hill.”
    “Where in Broken Hill?”
    A car blew by. “Main Street.”
    “Oh for fuck’s sake,” said the tall man.
    “Tell me what you want. I don’t know what you want.”
    The man sank to his haunches. “You drive a Taurus. You’ve been in the States eight months. A year before that, you lived in Broken Hill. You had a dog.”
    He shivered.
    A truck passed, wheels spitting road ice. “Not the outlier,” said the man. He shook his head. “Well, fuck.”
    “I’m really sorry.”
    “Forget about it,” said the man, standing. “Get up. Turn around.”
    “What?”
    “You heard me.”
    He rose, cautiously.
    “Turn.”
    He turned.
    “Walk.”
    “Where?”
    “It doesn’t matter. Away from the road.”
    “Okay, let’s think about this.”
    “You don’t walk, I’ll shoot you here.”
    “I’m not walking into the woods so you can shoot me there!”
    “Fine,” said the man, and there was a rustling, and Wil started walking. His shoes sank into the snow. It wasn’t more than ankle deep, but he made it look like it was. “Faster.”
    “I’m trying.”
    “I’m trying not to shoot you,” said the man. “But it’s getting fucking difficult.”
    He forged through deepening snow. His mind was a great white expanse. A snowscape, devoid of plans that ended with him alive.
    “Veer right. You’re trying to angle back to the road.”
    He veered. There were trees ahead, a thin stick forest. He was going to be shot in the woods. His body would disappear beneath the snowfall. In the spring, he would be gnawed by foxes. He would be discovered by Boy Scouts and poked with sticks.
    “Stop. This will do.”
    “Don’t shoot me in the back!” He turned, fighting snow. The man was ten feet away, unreachable in drifts this deep. “Leave me here. I can’t make it to anywhere in a hurry. You can get away.”
    The man raised the shotgun butt to his shoulder.
    “At least have the . . . goddamn common courtesy . . . wait! Tell me why!
Tell me why!
You can’t
just shoot me
! In the bathroom, you said to hop and I didn’t! That meant something, didn’t it?”
    “No.”
    “Don’t shoot me in the face!”
    The man exhaled. “Fine. Turn around.”
    “Okay! Okay! Just let me . . .” He pulled one foot out of the snow, put it down again. His nose ran. “
Motherfucker!
”
    “I’m shooting you in five seconds,” said the tall man. “You arrange yourself however you like between now and then.”
    He sank to the ground, because it didn’t matter. “I’m sorry, Cecilia. I’m sorry you died. I never said I loved you and I should have. It’s just the word. The bare words I couldn’t say, and I should have.” He was going to pass out. The man would shoot his unconscious body in the snow. It was probably best.
    Time passed. He raised his head. The tall man was still there. “What did you say?”
    “The . . . I . . . never told Cecilia I loved her. I should have said the words.”
    “You said
bare
words.”
    The silence stretched. He couldn’t help himself. “Are you going to shoot me?”
    “I’m thinking about it.”
    His bowels shivered.
    The man lowered the shotgun. “She made you forget,” said the man. “You really don’t know who you are.”
    Wil sat in the snow, teeth chattering.
    “New plan,” said the man. “Get back in the van.”
    •   •   •
    The world slid by in exit ramps and yellow-lit gas stations and trees dressed in snow. The van’s wipers thumped. Wil’s eye throbbed. The driver’s window was half-cranked, letting in furious air.
    The man glanced at him.