I’ve always been afraid of needles.

I remember Momma when I was little. I remember the way her hair would spill across her face when she’d lean over to pick me up. Her cheeks were always rosy, and her skin was smooth and soft. She was so pretty, so alive . . . and she loved me unconditionally—I could see it every time she smiled, which was often. She was always there for me, to make sure everything was all right, no matter what.

I feel the prick of the needle in my arm. It’s a big needle, but it doesn’t hurt at all. This tech must be good, not like the one at the hospital that time. I’d been sick with the flu—for too long, Momma’d said—and I’d gotten dehydrated. They’d taken me to the emergency room, and that nurse who’d tried to put the IV line in my arm, she’d hurt me. She said she couldn’t find the vein and had to do it again, but Momma said no. She’d yelled at her to get someone else, someone who knew what they were doing. Momma was protecting me . . . she was always protecting me.

This tech, though, he knows what he’s doing. The IV line is in place. I’ve been so unwell for so long, but I know I’ll be cured. They’ll give me their medicines and I’ll be cured. At long last, no more suffering, no more pain. No more needles.

I know that Momma would be here if she could, because she was always there for me. When I’d scrape a knee, when I’d get into a scrape with the law, she’d be there. She always knew what to do, and she always protected me.

Straps . . . there must’ve been straps. They must’ve strapped me down, because I don’t slide off when they tilt the table up so I face the window. Then the curtain opens, revealing all the faces, the ones eternally behind the glass. I know most of them because they’re my family, my Momma’s family. Some have tears in their eyes, some look mad, and some I just can’t tell. I imagine, though, that they’re all wondering the same thing. They’re wondering why a son would murder his own mother over the seventy dollars and change in her purse, money she probably would’ve given him if he’d asked.

The why of it? That’s easy. Meth.

The rest? Well, that’s just irony.

The man asks if I have any last words. I say no . . . which is also ironic . . . on its face.