Long after his parole officer had left, Ritchie was still sitting on the couch, watching television, drinking beer. He was thinking that maybe Linda sent Bill over, to check up on him, make sure he didn’t have another girl here. Or maybe, Bill was trying to get with Linda. Yea, that was it. He was snooping around here trying to find some way to violate him, send him back to the joint. Then he could get to Linda. Yea, that’s what was going on.

Finally, after he finished his last beer, Ritchie staggered into the bedroom, into the closet, and found the box. Carefully, he snapped open the latches and took out the gun, the gun his father had given him, the gun no one else knew about.

He was going to have to kill Bill.

He slid the gun beneath his pillow and lay down on the bed. For a long time, he watched the shadows on the ceiling. The shadows were his friends. They would make a plan for him to kill Bill, and whisper it to him as he slept. When he awoke, he would know what to do.

There were voices, in the living room. They were laughing, talking and laughing. Ritchie heaved himself from the bed. His eyes were red from drink and fitful sleep. His hair was tangled, his beard discolored from dried beer and drool. Down the hall he lurched, his vision blurry, his hands grasping at the walls for support.

There they were! Bill and Linda! Ritchie stared at the television, at Linda, with her hair pulled back and wearing a blue dress. She was sitting next to Bill, at the big desk. “What the hell is going on here?” Ritchie yelled.

“For those of you just joining us, good morning. I’m Mary Wetherall and this is Jonathon Tibbs. You’re watching Channel 3’s Morning Show. Now, let’s go live to Connie Banks at Laredo Park, where the students of Governor High are having a sit-in!”

“Don’t you run away from me,” Ritchie growled. “I knew you two were plotting against me.” Ritchie began an agitated dance across the floor, shaking his fists and growling. Suddenly he stopped. He pointed to the television, and said, very quietly, “I’m going to get my gun and shoot both of you. What do you say to that?”

“Well, Jonathon, those students have certainly found a unique way to raise money, haven’t they?”

“You think you can bribe me?” Ritchie said to the television. “I’m getting my gun.” Off he went, stumbling his way back to the bedroom. He went into the closet and saw the box sitting on the floor, empty. He backed out of the closet, sat down heavily onto the edge of the disheveled bed. “They stole my gun. They got into my house and stole my gun.” He could hear them out there, laughing, laughing at him. Anger, raw and red, rose up inside him. His girlfriend and his parole officer were having an affair, were plotting against him. They stole his gun. They were going to kill him. He had to do something, something to stop them. He was going to have to kill them first. The rage took hold, and Ritchie heaved himself up, headed down the hall to the living room.

“I know what you two are doing! I know what you’re up to. I’m gonna kill you with my bare hands!” Ritchie barreled toward the television and rammed into it, head first.

It was dark, completely dark. Ritchie tried to see, tried to move. He could hear voices, hear them saying, “His pulse is thready. It looks like the TV tried to eat him. We’re losing him.”

Then Ritchie saw a bright light, and he was sure that someone had finally turned on the TV. The light was beautiful, beautiful as Linda, and then he heard her say, “Well, that’s our News of the Day for this evening. Good night, Ritchie.”