Something smells familiar. It is her necklace, it is inside the open neck of her shirt. She leans toward me, 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 steel blue smoky city winter skin, and then it rolls away from her, lolling momentarily against the seam of her shirt then failing free, spinning and glinting, ribald and twisting at the same old string that I attached to the very same bullet back when it was newly picked, fresh from the Orchard.