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Do you ever look back on certain moments in life and wonder "What if?"

What if I had made that red light?

What if I had passed that final test?

What if I had taken that job offer?

Brooke wonders. What if she hadn't needed that cup of milk? What if it were a mere twenty minutes later. That's where destiny steps in, I guess.

It was a Friday, a summer night in Harlingston. An unusual cold front was passing through, so Brooke had decided it was a nice evening to make a pineapple upside down cake. She only realized once she nearly all the ingredients in the bowl, she was short a cup of milk.

It was past 5 o'clock and the only grocery store within thirty miles was closed. She glanced outside, seeing the neighbors black Chevy Duramax parked in the shared driveway of thier duplex. She didn't know him well, but the few times they had spoken he seemed very polite and wondered if he might have been able to spare the extra milk.

So she threw on her thong flip flops and walked outside and up to his door. Before she had a chance to knock she heard what sounded like muffled cries. She pressed her ear close and tried to listen. She could hear mindless babble, but not much else.

"Just do it!" A loud voice said. Then there was a gun shot. Without thinking, she ripped the door open. There was only one person in the room, the same man she recognized as the one she had spoken with prior.

He was bowed on his knees in the middle of the room.

"Are you okay?" She asks, feeling her heart crawl into her throat.

He doesn't answer, just looks up at her with the biggest brown eyes she has ever seen. They're droopy and blood shot.

Then she sees a revolver on the floor next to him and it hits her. This man was trying to shoot himself.

There was no blood on him or the ivory carpet. It was actually very clean, probably even cleaner than her own.

"Hey," she creeps a little closer.

"Are you okay?"

He doesn't say anything, just weakly shakes his head before resting it on his knees.

She picks up the gun and places it on the counter, out of his reach. She debates calling 911, but who knows what this guy is thinking.

She sits on the floor before him.

"What's your name?" She asks. His head lifts up. His face is wet, and covered in hives, like he has been crying for a long, long time.

"Cade." He says quietly, like he is trying to figure out what she is doing.

"That's a neat name. I'm Brooke." She says as calmly as possible.

Cade seems to know what she is doing.

"Listen, I'm not crazy, not on drugs." He seems to forget where he was going with that.

Somehow Brooke can tell that though.

"I know." She says simply.

"What are you doing here?" He says.

She sighs.

"I came over to ask to borrow some milk when I heard---" she stops.

He looks up at her.

"The gun?"

Brooke nods nervously.

"So you just happened to be standing at the door when I shot it?"

She nods again. Then there is a brief silence.

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