The blood was warm. It ran from a cut above Walter’s eye, mixing with the sweat, dripping onto the collar of his white shirt. He held his rifle steady. His hands did not shake. They never shook. Not anymore. The town of Oakhaven lay below him, gray and silent under the morning fog. The church steeple poked through the mist like a broken tooth.

Walter waited.

He had been waiting for three days. Three days of rain. Three days of watching the windows. He knew the rhythm of the house. He knew who lived there. He knew the name. He had read it in the file. He had memorized it. It was a simple name. John. Just John.

The door opened.

A man stepped out. He wore a gray coat. He held a black umbrella. He looked old. His hair was thin and white. He moved slowly, as if the air were heavy. He walked toward the gate. He paused. He looked up at the roof where Walter stood.

Walter did not move.

The man in the coat looked away. He continued to the street. He hailed a cab. The cab was yellow. It stopped. The man got in. The door closed. The cab drove away. The fog swallowed it.

Walter lowered the rifle.

He went back inside. The room was cold. The walls were bare plaster. There was a single table. A chair. A bed with a thin mattress. On the table, there was a tin can. It was open. It was full of peaches.

Walter sat down. He picked up a peach. The skin was soft. It was red and yellow. He bit into it. The juice ran down his chin. It was sweet. It was cold. He ate another. He ate until his mouth was full. He ate until the can was empty.

He did not throw the can out. He left it on the table. The pit sat in the center. The juice dried on the wood.

He stood up. He put the rifle in its case. He checked the lock. He checked the straps. He walked to the door. He opened it. The hallway was dark. The floorboards creaked under his boots.

He went down the stairs. One step at a time. His legs were stiff. His back ached. He felt the weight of the years. He felt the weight of the gun. He felt the weight of the silence.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The sun was trying to break through the clouds. It was a pale, weak light. It made the wet streets shine. The town was waking up. A dog barked. A car horn sounded. A woman’s voice called out from a doorway.

Walter walked to the station house.

The door was heavy iron. He pushed it open. It groaned. The lobby was empty. The desk was bare. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling. It flickered.

He walked to the office at the end of the hall. The door was open. He stepped inside.

Sergeant Miller was sitting at the desk. He was looking at a file. He did not look up. He kept reading. He turned a page. He turned another page.

Walter stood in the doorway. He did not speak. He did not move. He just stood there.

Miller stopped reading. He looked up. His face was flat. His eyes were tired. They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much. Or perhaps a man who had seen nothing at all.

“Walter,” Miller said. His voice was low. It was dry.

“Sir,” Walter said.

“Come in. Close the door.”

Walter stepped inside. He closed the door. The latch clicked. It was a small sound. It sounded final.

Miller leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands on the desk. He looked at Walter. He waited.

Walter looked at the floor. He looked at his boots. The mud from the street was still on them. He looked up. He met Miller’s eyes.

“I’m here to report,” Walter said.

Miller nodded. “Report.”

“I finished the job.”

Miller’s face did not change. He did not blink. He did not frown. He just looked at Walter.

“Which job?” Miller asked.

Walter felt a tightness in his chest. He tried to breathe. The air was stale. It smelled of old paper and dust.

“The one I was assigned,” Walter said.

Miller picked up a pen. He tapped it against the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Who was the target?”

Walter hesitated. The word was in his mouth. It was a stone. He had to spit it out.

“John,” Walter said.

Miller stopped tapping the pen. He set it down. He leaned forward.

“Which John?”

Walter closed his eyes. He remembered the face. The thin hair. The gray coat. The umbrella. He remembered the way the man looked up. He remembered the fear. Or perhaps it was not fear. Perhaps it was curiosity.

“The one in the house on Hill Street,” Walter said.

Miller’s expression shifted. It was subtle. A muscle in his cheek twitched. He looked at the file in front of him. He opened it. He looked at the photo. He looked at Walter.

“Walter,” Miller said. “Do you know who John is?”

Walter did not answer. He did not know. He had not asked. He had not cared. It was a name. It was a target. That was all it was.

Miller picked up the file. He held it out. “Look.”

Walter took the file. He opened it. There was a photo. It was the same photo. The same man. The same gray coat. But the caption was different.

It read: Dr. John Evans. Volunteer. Red Cross.

Walter stared at the paper. The letters blurred. He read it again. Volunteer. Red Cross.

He looked up at Miller.

Miller was watching him. His face was calm. It was the calm of a man who had done this before. Many times.

“He treated the wounded,” Miller said. “For three weeks. He didn’t take a cent. He didn’t ask for thanks. He just helped.”

Walter’s hand shook. He dropped the file. It fell on the floor with a thud.

“He was a doctor,” Walter whispered.

“He was a man,” Miller corrected. “He was a good man. And you were sent to kill him.”

Walter felt the room tilt. The light bulb flickered. It buzzed. It was a high, thin sound. It drilled into his head.

“Who sent me?” Walter asked. His voice was rough. It was a croak.

Miller did not answer. He looked away. He looked at the window. The light outside was brighter now. The clouds were breaking.

“You know,” Miller said.

Walter felt a surge of anger. It was hot. It was bright. It burned in his stomach. He stepped forward. He grabbed the edge of the desk. The wood creaked.

“Who?” he shouted.

Miller stood up. He was taller than Walter. He was broader. He moved slowly. He did not raise his hands. He did not reach for his gun.

“Sit down, Walter.”

“No.” Walter’s voice was a growl. “Tell me who.”

Miller walked around the desk. He stopped in front of Walter. He looked down at him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Miller said.

“It matters,” Walter said. “I killed him. I killed a good man.”

“You did what you were told,” Miller said.

“I am not a machine,” Walter said.

Miller smiled. It was a sad smile. It was the smile of a man who had lost something he could not name.

“Sometimes,” Miller said, “we are.”

Walter looked at Miller. He saw his own face in Miller’s eyes. He saw the emptiness. He saw the resignation. He saw the acceptance.

Miller reached into his jacket. Walter flinched. He expected a gun. He expected a badge. He expected an order.

Miller pulled out a cigarette. He lit it. He took a drag. He exhaled. The smoke curled up. It was thin and white.

“I have to report this,” Miller said. “I have to say you did not find the target. I have to say the house was empty. I have to say you wasted three days.”

Walter felt his knees go weak. He slumped against the desk.

“Why?” he asked.

Miller looked at him. His eyes were kind. They were the eyes of a father. Or a brother. Or a ghost.

“Because the system is broken, Walter,” Miller said. “And I am too tired to fix it. I am too tired to fight it. I am just tired.”

Walter looked at the floor. He saw the file. He saw the photo. He saw the name. John.

He thought of the peaches. He thought of the juice. He thought of the cold.

“I’m sorry,” Walter said.

Miller nodded. “I know.”

Walter stood up. His legs were steady. He did not shake. He did not tremble. He felt light. He felt empty.

He walked to the door. He opened it. The hallway was dark. The air was cool.

He walked out.

The rain had started again. It was light. It was gentle. It washed the streets. It washed the mud. It washed the blood.

Walter walked to the park. The park was empty. The trees were wet. The grass was slick. He sat on a bench. The wood was cold. It seeped through his pants.

He watched the rain. He watched the drops hit the ground. Splash. Splash. Splash.

He thought of the justice he had served. He thought of the law he had upheld. He thought of the badge on his chest. It was heavy. It was iron. It was cold.

He reached into his pocket. He pulled out the badge. It was silver. It was engraved. He looked at it. He saw his own face. He saw the star. He saw the shield.

He held it over the bench. He let it go.

It fell. It hit the wet wood. It made a small sound. It lay there. It shone in the rain.

Walter stood up. He walked away. He did not look back. He walked into the town. He walked into the fog. He walked into the silence.

He did not know where he was going. He did not care. He was free. He was alone. He was human.

The rain continued. It washed the badge. It washed the blood. It washed the truth.

The town remained. The church steeple stood. The windows glowed. The life went on.

Walter walked on. His footsteps were quiet. They were soft. They were gone.