His hands hang in the air, not of his own accord, He looks up at them, almost to make sure they’re still there. So stange it seems to him they can exist under the control of someone else. He looks down. A little red button cowers in the shade of a countertop. He remembers buttons like this when he was a kid. Always wanting to push it. No reason. No purpose. Just a youthful curiosity. He makes a move towards it. Don’t move! Not another goddamn move! You’ll be dead. Dead. It hung in the air like smoke from a gun. He never thought about death before. His hand shoots to the button. A push. A click. A bang. The alarm rings. The cops come. At least he thinks. He never sees them.