The outside of the car was white. The inside was plain and smelled like leather.

There was a Buddhist charm dangling from the front view mirror. It swung whenever the car drove over a rough patch in the road.

In the end, Raymond couldn't do it after all.

He'd tried. He really did. He put the gun to his head, his finger in the trigger, and pulled.

The gun had locked up. Or his hand had. It didn't matter. The result was the same.

Now, he was in a car. Vincent was driving. He'd introduced himself after Raymond had failed, and then he took the gun away from him.

"You’re not going to tell me your name?"

"No."

"That's fine."

It didn't seem to bother him. They rode in silence, and Raymond didn't know where they were going.

The car weaved into the industrial part of the city and pulled into a lot.

Vincent opened the door. Raymond followed him out.

The ground was gravel. It wasn’t paved. His shoes crunched against the stones.

In front of him was a building that looked like all the rest. He should’ve been alarmed, or curious, or frightened, or angry, but he felt nothing.

"After you," Vincent said.

Inside, it smelled like cigarettes and booze. There was a mat on the floor, and a crowd gathered around it.

Two people were standing in the ring.

Vincent turned to him.

"Let's watch," he said.

Time stopped.

Everything stopped, except for the heartbeat in Raymond's ribs and the blood rushing in his ears.

The man in the ring put his arms up. He got hit. He swung back. He was too weak!

But he got up again.

He swung again. He was hit again. Blood splattered on the side of his face.

Weak. Too weak. But Raymond didn't mean the fighter.

Watching him, Raymond knew that to want something was dangerous. Every time he’d wanted before, it had hurt him.

Seeing something, seeing others have it, seeing others have the life you needed for yourself, and to be condemned to nothing, had killed him inside. He was already dead despite every breath. It’d tear him apart, limb from limb, knowing who he could have been.

This was utter cruelty. All of it before him, around him, everywhere. The men in the ring. The men in the crowd. The man standing next to him, who'd brought him here.

He wanted to beat Vincent for taking him here and showing him a wrold he could never join, just like all the rest.

Raymond was going to hurl.

Vincent let him run. As a parting shot, he shoved a package into his hands. 

“Take one shot a week at whatever dose you want. If you’re going to do it, then figure it out," he said. "Tonight, I saved your life twice, but no need to thank me.”