‘What’s he done now? Steal a car? Mug a pensioner?’
‘Can I come in? It’s probably best if I did.’
‘If you must, but I don’t care what he’s done,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Just that he goes away for a long time.’
‘I’m afraid he’ll be gone for a very long time,’ the policeman said, once she was seated. ‘He died an hour ago. Hit by a truck. He ran out into the road to save a child.’
She stared silently into space.
‘He died a good death.’
‘He deserved a slow, painful one,’ she muttered.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.