Frightful thoughts raced through his brain. He was certain that the pain in his upper chest was heart pain, particularly when he recalled the shortness of breath he experienced after the struggle with his mother. His saliva tasted peculiar and he wondered if pus was festering in his throat or if he had brought about a bleed from so much screaming. He endured an age of agony and managed to fall asleep nonetheless.

Matthew awoke at four-thirty in the afternoon. He came to in the full layout position and stretched luxuriously, arching his feet as he scissored his limbs and made little snow angels under the covers of the Slumber King. Except for the interlude with his mother, Matthew had pretty much put together a near-twenty-two-hour package of sleep from the last twenty-four. A commendable feat! He continued to savor little dream fragments as he walked into the kitchen for coffee. His pride and self-satisfaction vanished when he saw that the carafe under the Mr. Coffee machine was completely empty—treason and high tyranny on her part. Shit! As Matthew fumbled through the cupboards looking for coffee filters, the memory of their argument last night came back in rich detail. It had been an ugly scene. Still, it wasn’t like her to hold a grudge or not have some coffee going. When he finally found the filters and the package of ground Starbucks, he filled the machine and hit the switch. He put the biggest cup he could find under the fount since he didn’t want to wait for an entire pot to fill before he got some caffeine in him. He could do a quick switch once his cup was loaded. Jesus, what a hassle! He wasn’t the kind that could casually wait for coffee. When he had to have it, he had to have it. Furious over this inconvenience, he impatiently drummed his fingers as he waited for the coffee. Then Matthew spotted a full bottle of morphine tablets sitting across the room next to the Cuisinart—morphine tablets that his mother always kept locked up in the three-hundred-pound safe in her bedroom.