It is what it is.

But Killer?

He's holding it against me still.

For the moment, anyway.

Stepping into the foyer, I pause there, taking off my jacket as I stare at the mutt. Rolling my sleeves up, I waltz right past him, eliciting a small retreat out of panic. He follows me, though, still lightly growling, as I head into the kitchen and fix myself something to drink. I take a few swallows of ice water before reaching up into the cabinet, grabbing a dog treat.

I toss it at him.

All at once, the growling ceases. He gobbles it up, suddenly wagging his tail, before looking at me like he wants another.

In all, I toss him three.

Walking out of the kitchen with my water, still clutching the orange Lorenzo gave to me, I make my way into the den where the television plays.

It's the middle of the afternoon, but Karissa is fast asleep.

Sprawled out on the couch, huddled under a fuzzy black blanket, the remote lying on her chest as she snores quietly. I snatch up the remote before settling in on the edge of the couch cushion near her feet, careful not to disturb her.

Food Network.

Shaking my head, I quickly flip through the channels, stalling when I come across The Godfather on one of the cable stations. It's cut down and edited, diluted for the masses, but it's a hell of a lot better than what she'd been watching.

Setting my water down on the coffee table, I start peeling the orange, my eyes on the screen. Sonny Corleone's black car speeds up to the toll plaza, blocked in by another. The tollbooth worker? He ducks and hides.

Even he knows it's an ambush.

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

A rapid succession of gunfire lights up the screen, annihilating the car with Sonny still in it. He climbs out, prepared to fight back, but he knows he's in over his head. Men like Sonny? Men like me? We know when it's too late.

Help comes, but not soon enough.

Spoiler alert: Sonny's dead.

If I ruined it for you, well, that's your own fault. The movie has been out longer than I've been alive. I've watched it a few times, mostly fueled by curiosity, picking out the shreds of accuracy that relate to my life. It might be cliché, but it's not all bullshit.

I've considered that might be how I die someday.

Wouldn't exactly be surprising, would it?

Except, unlike Sonny, I don't think I'd have a father show up to mourn me afterward.

Laughing to myself, I look away from the television as Sonny's father, the Don, weeps over him in the morgue. Yeah, not in my lifetime...

"You know, most people find this part sad, not funny."

As soon as I hear Karissa's voice, I glance her way, meeting her eyes as she regards me warily from where she lays. She's awake now, but barely. Her face is flushed, eyes bloodshot, with sleep-lines marking her cheek.

"It's not funny," I say, continuing to peel the orange. "I was just thinking about how, if that were me, Giuseppe would probably be dancing."

She rolls her eyes and shifts around on the couch, pushing the blanket off of herself. "He would not."

"Yeah, you're probably right," I mutter. "He's told me a few times that I'm already dead to him. I died two decades go. This?" I motion toward the television, where they've all already moved on, the plot moving forward. "This would probably just be a relief."

"You dying wouldn't be a relief to anybody." She pauses, her face scrunching up. She's not stupid. She knows I have enemies. "Well, I mean except for, you know, anybody who truly hates you, but that's not your father."

"If you say so."

"I do," she says, her voice stern. "So no dying. I forbid it. You've gotta stick around and grow old."

I wait for it, as soon as she says that.

As usual, she doesn't disappoint.

"Well, older, anyway," she mumbles. "You're already kind of old."

Smiling, I pull the orange apart, breaking off a wedge to eat. It's sweet and juicy. You can find navel oranges in any grocery store, but there's nothing quite like one pulled straight from a tree in Florida.

"I didn't know we had oranges," Karissa says, still eyeing me. "Hell, I didn't know you liked oranges."

"I do, but we don't," I say, pulling off a wedge and holding it out to her. "Got this while I was out."

She doesn't hesitate to snatch it right from my hand, eating it before motioning toward me, silently asking for another piece. Or more like demanding it, since she knows I'll give it to her. She doesn't need to ask. I break what's left in half, forfeiting part to her, as my attention turns back to the movie.

I'm not paying her any attention.

That's why it catches me off guard when she throws her part of the orange down and jumps up from the couch, accidentally kicking me to get around where I'm sitting. I jolt, startled, and turn to her, but she's gone.

She's already out of the room.

She's running.

I'm not one to fall victim to herd mentality, but I'm on my feet without a thought, following her. She's up the stairs and down the hallway.

I catch up to her in the bathroom.

The door is wide open, and she's on her knees in front of the toilet, losing everything in her stomach. Panic sweeps through me. It's a rare sensation. It makes me sick to my stomach.

That's all it is, isn't it?

I look at my hand, at the remnants of the orange that I'm clutching. Son of a bitch. I should've known better than to actually eat something he gave me. The thought didn't even cross my mind that it might not be safe.

I'm getting soft.

Too soft.

This isn't like me.

This soft, flawed idiot I've become is nothing like the strong-willed man I always prided myself as being. That man didn't take candy from strangers and just fucking eat it like he had no reason to be worried. That man knew the cost of being soft.

I toss what's left of the fruit in the trashcan before crouching beside Karissa, my hand on her back. It seems to have let up already, and now she's just laying there, against the toilet, her head down, like she's planning to go to sleep.

I'm trying hard not to be disturbed by that.

I scrubbed it not long ago, one night when I couldn't sleep.

But, still... I piss in that thing.

"Karissa, baby..." My voice is quiet. I'm not trying to alarm her. "Talk to me."

She turns her head, opening her eyes. "I think I'm coming down with something."

"What makes you think that?"

Her face contorts at that question. "Other than the fact that I'm laying halfway in the toilet?"

"Other than that."

"I've felt like crap all day. I'm queasy. Exhausted. I almost feel hung-over, but I didn't drink last night, so…"

"So you're coming down with something."

"Yep."

I rub her back a moment longer before standing up, offering her a hand. She lets me help her stand up, not at all arguing when I grab her, sweeping her right off of her feet, and carry her down the hall to the bedroom. Yeah, must be coming down with something to not put up a fight over that.

I get her settled into the bed and run my hand along her forehead. She's clammy but not hot. "How about some soup?"