I stood in Gairloch's kitchen and watched the colors go by. In direct response to witnessing Logan's murder, I was in some altered state where the world turned psychedelic and everything moved in slow motion. My hand was no exception. It moved in slow motion back and forth before my face, trying to catch the brilliant blues and pinks that floated seductively in front of me. I figured this was how condemned people see the world, almost halfway to heaven in the clouds.
I noticed every detail around me, the way the black and white danced together on the marble countertops, the way the ovens glowed bright through their glass doors, announcing the marvels they created within, the hiss of pots and pans on the stove, singing their own dance of creation. The smells were heightened, too. The smell
