Something smells familiar. It is her necklace, her necklace inside the open neck of her shirt. She leans toward me, leans across everything that has been put on the table, across all of the tables that have been turned. She leans into that space between us, and the bullet skids momentarily, against her stainless steel-pale city-winter skin. And then it rolls away from her, lolling against the seam of her shirt, then falling free, spinning and glinting, ribald and twisting on the same old string that I attached to that very same bullet back when it was newly picked, fresh from the Orchard.