Zdenda Vdethdrine took one look at his name and shot himself. "Typical Latin," said the onlookers. "Fiery temper. Always shooting themselves.
Should we call for an ambulance?"
In the ambulance Zdenda sat up and scratched the bullet hole. It peeled off. "What's going on?" he asked the paramedic.
"You shot yourself. We made you all better."
"I can go?"
"I think you have to talk to a psychiatrist."
"But I'm all better. I think I'll just go."
"You really shouldn't."
"I think I will." Zdenda opened the ambulance door and stepped out.
He sat at the kitchen table, his head laying on the table, eyes shut. People were talking around him. Food was being slowly served. Too slowly. He reached out, felt a greasy roast potato, and made loose attempts to eat it. It had been roasted with garlic, and as usual he felt like throwing up.
"Zdenda?" a voice enquired. Zdenda left his head on the table, the greasy and nauseating roast potato just about in his mouth, and opened his eyes. "Zdenda, do you want to come on the 27th and 28th?" Zdenda closed his eyes again.
On the morning of the 27th, the post arrived. Zdenda picked it up, placed it on the table, placed his head on the post, and closed his eyes. People were talking around him again. "Are you coming? Zdenda? Zdenda? Are you coming? Zdenda? Can you hear me? Are you coming? Zdenda?" Doors closed and they were gone.
Doors opened. "Hi Zdenda." He opened his eyes. Evening of the 28th. "How are you?" Eyes closed.