"And this pistol," she said, "belonged to none other than Russian playwright Anton Chekhov."
You know how sometimes you'll feel a muscle relax, and you didn't even know it was tense until it relaxed? This was like that, only in reverse.
"Are we in a narrative of some kind?" I asked her nervously.
She rolled her eyes. She heard that before.
"Our display of the fourth wall is still closed for maintenance," she said, testily.
And then a shot rang out.