It's night. The empty lot is speckled with weeds, and bordered by tall buildings and a crumbling cement parking structure. It's lit by the headlights behind you. In the circle of white light--bright, too bright for civilian headlights--is Carl. You know Carl. He's a friend.
You already know it's too late for him, but you leap forward anyway to try to stop his hand as it lifts the service pistol up to his chin.