Tell Them This When I Die

Adam

Adam opens the door to his apartment. Nobody's there, but when he looks down, there's a box on top of a few newspapers. He takes everything inside, struggling with the heavy box as he glances at the newspapers. Another guy dead from some street shooting. Some avalanche buried skiers in the Apls. He closes the door and gets a pair of scissors to open the box. It's heavy as hell. No return address, but Adam's name on the tag. It says it's a timed sending—set to deliver to him on a specific day.

Adam opens the flaps and pulls out a two-litre bottle of gin. It's the most expensive kind money can buy—imported from Whales.

Adam blinks, then glances at the table. He puts the bottle down, watching it carefully. It's just liquid. It's nothing until he makes it something.

He displays it on the shelf in the living room, then takes a deep breath. He glances at the table once more. He picks up his phone. Dials a number he wished he could've dialed a long time ago.

"Adam?"

"Hey mom," Adam says. He runs a hand through his hair and looks up at the gin. It's a nice decoration. Decoration with a message: Knives aren't dangerous, gin doesn't make you an addict and guns aren't deadly. You are more powerful to be unafraid of something that possess the power to kill, and yet do nothing but use it as a paperweight.

"So nice to hear from you, honey. I miss you tons."

Adam smiles at the gin. "I miss you, too, mom. Look, I'm planning a trip upstate soon."

"That's wonderful! Will you bring Daphne?"

"Of course I will. But for now, do you have a moment?"

"I always have a moment for you," Adam's mother says.

Adam smiles. Turns away from the gin. "I want to tell you a story about someone."