I’ll tell you what is real, he said. Nothing. It’s all in our minds. Truth? that doesn’t exist. It’s just made-up situations, the old man said. Lies we tell ourselves, he drank his coffee and continued talking to himself. Old girlfriends, former lovers, some old dog that bit us when we were in first grade; figments of the imagination. They were never there, he lit a cigarette. This whole life is just one big dream, his boy came into the room. He looked up at him from the kitchen table. Tall kid. Weighed about a buck fifty. The young man opened the refrigerator and pulled out an Old Milwaukee’s Best.

What are you pontificating about? the boy asked. Out here blabbing on to yourself. You’re crazy old man. Just crazy.

What do you know? the old man asked him. You’re not real. Your mother wasn’t real. Just some kind of thoughts in my head.

What do you know about real? You’ve avoided reality your whole life, the kid slapped him. Now that’s real, the old man was stunned. Face turned red. Did you feel that? the boy asked. Get a little taste of reality? he laughed.

The old man got up from his chair and headed for the closet, where he grabbed a shot gun and placed a bullet in the barrel. He pointed the gun at the boy; his own flesh and blood. This isn’t real, he told him. This isn’t real at all, he pointed the gun at his son.

Put the gun down, dad.

You’re just a dream, a bad dream I’ve had all my life, he put the gun to his head. I’m going to end this dream once and for all.

The son grabbed the barrel and removed it from his jaw-bone. The old man fired, and the bullet went right through the kitchen wall. They both laughed.

Well, the old man said. You can’t kill what’s not there.