"Bullet in the Brain"
I missed the reading, but I know the story: as nearly perfect a specimen of the genre as was ever penned (offhand I can think of just two to equal it—Nabokov's "Spring in Fialta" and Updike's "The Happiest I've Been").
The bullet is already in the brain; it won't be outrun forever, or charmed to a halt. In the end it will do its work and leave the troubled skull behind, dragging its comet's tail of memory and hope and talent and love into the marble hall of commerce. That can't be helped. But for now Anders can still make time. Time for the shadows to lengthen on the grass, time for the tethered dog to bark at the flying ball, time for the boy in right field to smack his sweat-blackened mitt and softly chant, They is, they is, they is.
cordially,
Die Welt ist alles, was der Fall ist.