"Not like that," he says. He doesn't seem nettled by the stranger's tone at all, just a little withdrawn, like he's thinking things over even as he speaks.

"Got in fist fights plenty," he says. "Lotta folk back home used to think the crippled boy'd be an easy target. Wasn't. Lost a few, won a few, I mean, nothin' special. But that's not the same as having a gun in your hand. Feels like..."

He pauses to think scuffing the toe of his boot against a chunk of ice. "Feels like stepping into water you think reaches your knees and findin' out the hard way it goes over your head."

"I ain't ashamed, is the thing. The people that helped me, and my friends, they're worried, like they think I'm going to break down? I'm mad about it, and a little sad, but I ain't feeling much else. I reckon if he'd died I'd feel worse. 'Cause taking someone's life is serious, even if it's justified. But as far as I know they're both alive, and if they die now 'cause of the storm, that ain't my fault."

"But then I stop and think and wonder if maybe I should feel ashamed or guilty. I don't wanna kill nobody, but...apparently I could, and I didn't know that about myself 'till now."

He's talking too much. Something about the white snow and how quietly it falls must put him in a confessional mood. "Sorry, I'm runnin' my mouth."