I took out the gun. I pointed it at Harry. “Don’t move,” I hissed.

He looked straight down the barrel of the Glock 17 and whimpered. “I won’t,” he said softly.

I pushed the barrel of the gun against his forehead, and pulled the trigger, hearing the shot and watching the blood begin to seep down his forehead and his eyes glaze over.

But just at that moment I heard a voice. I looked up to see my mother standing over me.

“Come, Jackson, it’s your sixth birthday! Let’s go celebrate,” she whispered, pulling me to my feet.