George stares down at Lennie’s limp and lifeless body with a clenched jaw. Each breath he draws in has no depth or purpose behind it. His eyes burn with the threat of grief. His heart felt nonexistent, except for the raging pain that began to thrum violently behind his ribcage. For all intents and purposes, he was just as dead as his best friend.

He had done something bad, just as Lennie had done something bad only a few hours earlier. Or had it been something good?

How do we determine the justness of taking another man’s life? When do the lines blurred between mercy and murder come into focus? When do we open our eyes?

For years, George had to keep his eyes open for any dangers to himself or, eternally more important, Lennie. But now that that man lay dead at his feet, George felt like the newborn first given life by its mother; eyes glued shut. Naïve.

At least in his own version of Heaven, Lennie will have a house on a couple of acres of land, with the patch of alfalfa and as many rabbits as he can hold in a lifetime.

George could never have provided such care for a man. The least he ever could have done was grant mercy.

His knees slowly drop to the surface of the earth. The gun falls limply from his hand. Two sharp, shaky breaths and George rocks back onto his heels, and then his backside. If anybody cared to look at him, they could see he was trembling as badly as a new fawn.

You were looking at him. You saw how bad he was shaking, and the angry red turmoil that slowly crept up his neck and into his face.