I'd been here in the junkyard at least a week. A business week anyway. I remembered those from long ago. I meant to return to my camp several days ago but found no pressing reason to do so. Still, while I thought I well might discover something, I found nothing of interest in this place. Yet voices led me close to here, of that I was sure. But now they were all too silent. As they sometimes were. But never for this long a time.

I understood what that meant. I understood reluctantly. But I understood nonetheless.

I walked to the olive-green Dodge, the one near the gate. Green? Yea, it once was green anyway. Now it was rust-red like the rest. I knew that from many inspections done by me from afar. And 'afar' is as close as I ever came to it. It was the only car in the lot I feared. I knew not why I feared it so. Not at least until now.

I pulled open the door and looked, as I knew I must, in the glove box. Thirty-eights. I recognized them from my free days. Those days long ago left behind. A half-full box. In very good shape. Odd, given their age. Not a bit of tarnish or rust upon them. Great.

I then, less than carefully for me, moved my hand under the passenger seat. Not worrying a bit at what might now live there to greet me. Right now, I'd more than welcome the fangs that no doubt would greet the less than hospitable intruder me. I just did not care. I was tired. Tired of waiting for advice from the seemingly non-caring voices. I found exactly what I expected. The revolver matching those rounds. I retrieved it and pondered it. It was perfectly preserved, I thought. I wondered how that could be.

With a casual push of the thumb on the release, and a long-ago practiced flick of the wrist, I flipped the cylinder out. It was empty. Yet it was clean. Very much so. I looked again to the shells, sitting there as I placed them on the torn, now ragged and weather-beaten Dodge seat. I knew exactly what to do. And the knowing of it brought a tear of sorts. No, that’s a lie. The tears were quite real. They revealed something that is difficult to write, even in Morse as I now do. The last Morse I’ll ever tap. That I knew.

With that same long-ago practiced hand, I selected a round from the middle of the unused portion of the box and loaded a single of the six available slots before me. And with that same practiced flick of the wrist, I snapped it closed again. I looked, I regarded, and I admired that piece of workmanship now gracing my hand. Still so very black. Blued really. Not a bit of corrosion on it. Not a tad of a spot or a stain upon it. Almost as if it had just been cleaned. Certainly not something sitting here for these long years. Sitting here beneath this a derelict, junk-car seat. It almost felt newly oiled in my hand. I almost loved it.

It felt, not almost, but perfectly at home there in my palm. As if what were about to happen were truly meant to be. I did the unthinkable. At least was use to be unthinkable to me, in a time long ago and far removed from this place. I looked down the barrel of the now-loaded weapon. Which all weapons, I once long ago knew, really were supposed to be treated. Regardless of rounds present or not. Still, I didn’t much care. Why should I. Especially in the quiet with which I now dealt.

Looking straight into the barrel end, I could see into the uncovered cylinder the non-chambered round I just placed there. It was glistening with newness at me, and was just two single clicks around until it would be perfectly placed. Placed just for me this very day. Or the next. As I noted that I quickly pulled the trigger twice, so as to bring that round closer to me. Closer still to the hammer and pin that it needed.