Short’s is the best position they is,” and Anders hears the cadence of those words echoing through his hollow mind as he passes slowly away. A boy with a Southern accent claims, “Shortstop. Instead, what he does remember as he’s lying, barely conscious on the bank floor, is a small, seemingly insignificant moment from his childhood: playing baseball in a dusty, warm field. The third chunk dissolves into a bit of lyrical prose discussing what Anders didn’t remember while he’s dying on the floor (big things … things it seems one would remember in his last moments: his first lover, his wife, seeing a friend’s name on a book jacket). From there, the story shifts into a slow, dreamlike path that follows the bullet, molasses-slow, through Anders’ brain (using objective, scientific language: “scattering shards of bone into the cerebral cortex, the corpus callosum, back toward the basal ganglia …”). He sasses the robber and is quickly shot in the head. In the story, a horrible man named Anders is waiting in line at a bank when it’s held up. Last semester, I taught a beautiful short story called “Bullet in the Brain” by Tobias Wolff to my advanced literature seniors.
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