The hum of the city just waking up reached my ears and I smiled, letting the wind rustle my hair. It was peaceful; perfect. And then the gunshots began.
My hands and underarms grew clammy with fevered regret as I doubled over in the simple but cushy chair, head down and fingers interlocked as though in prayer. Then, the grey-haired, bifocaled man uttered the magic words that would grip my body and make it convulse wildly in a fit of rapture: “You are NOT the father!”