Page 98 of Assassin Anonymous

I peer through the scope, into the front window of the house. The living room is empty. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I shouldn’t check it. I don’t want to be here longer than I have to be. Someone could spot me.

But most of the driveways on the block are empty. People gone for work, or traveling for the holidays, or scrambling to buy Christmas gifts at the last second. I risk it. It’s a text from Booker.

Booker: You done yet?

Me: Almost.

Booker: We’re running out of time.

Me: I got three hours.

Booker: Google says they close at 4.

Me: I called. Holiday hours. They’re open to 6.

Booker: That’s not what Google said.

Me: Google doesn’t know everything. I called to make sure.

Booker: Don’t fuck me on this, Mark.

Me: Calm down, tough guy. I got it covered.

Booker: Ask for Maritza.

Me: This better be worth it. It’s out of the way. I like that place on Bleecker.

Booker: Remember the last time you went hard in the paint for someone? Your judgment remains suspect.

Me: You’re never going to let me live that down.

Booker: Real talk, man, I’ve been thinking I’m nuts for a long time. Seeing ghosts everywhere. It was actually pretty affirming that my gut was right on that. Means my radar still kind of works.

Booker: But no, I will absolutely not let you live it down.

Back to the scope. I shift it to my right arm, giving my left a chance to rest. Kozlov’s bullet missed the tangle of bone and major blood vessels in my shoulder, but it tore out a chunk of my deltoid muscle. Six months of rehab bought me a little strength and range of motion, but it’s never going to be at full capacity.

Could have been worse.

I spend a lot of time thinking about what Kenji did, sacrificing his recovery, and then his life. In the movie version, I’d chalk it up to some cutesy hitman code like “You live by the blade, you die by the blade.” The honest truth of it is, I think Kenji loved me as much as I loved him.

My service commitment: organizing and leading the weekly meetings, keeping an eye on the Paper Cranes forum, taking on sponsees of my own—that’s the best way to honor his memory.

I’m still waiting for that last part. I think I’m ready. Another thing he was right about. Being a sponsor isn’t about saving someone else. It’s about reinforcing your own recovery and saving yourself in the process.

One life, plus another.

Even though we haven’t had any new recruits, I’ve been practicing the paper cranes, which contain the password for the new forum on the Amber Road, the site that took the place of the Via Maris. It feels good to keep that part of the tradition alive.

I always wondered about the origin of the cranes and never asked. I feel silly now, for not asking. It was one of those things I figured we would get to eventually, and then eventually turned into too late.

The story I’ve decided to tell myself is that Kenji wanted to use his hands, the hands that inflicted so much pain and death, to create something delicate and beautiful.

Finally, there’s movement against the lens of the scope.

Sara walks into the living room, Bennett toddling after her, and it takes me a moment to realize I stopped breathing. He’s got the same color hair as me. He goes to a kitchen playset and slams plastic toys together, pretending to cook. Sara sits on the couch, clearly exhausted, but content. The Christmas tree twinkles in the background.

This is the first time I’ve seen Bennett and it’s all I can do to keep the scope steady.

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