The tiny plastic ball spatters across Yancey’s temple. A killing shot.

He teeters, wide-eyed in shock, contents of his red solo cup swirling up and spilling out the side. Free hand clapping over the side of his head, he blurts the most vulgar thing he can think of, in the moment, “Gosh darn-it!”

And then, drawing his hand away from his face to look at the blood – or, no, wait, blood’s not literally blue. And anyway, his would be purple. “What in the world?” He stares at his hand, face contorting into a scowl. “Holloways.”