Matthew took a deep breath and listened for the least hush of sound. Suddenly thought and action were one. He closed the distance between himself and the drugs with the stealth and silence of a trained Mohican stalker. He quickly dumped a dozen of the tablets into his palm, shook the bottle to fluff it up, and then returned to his station next to the coffee machine. The entire action was completed faster than Superman making a phone-booth costume change. He had been reckless with the morphine tabs on earlier occasions. The rustle of pills was a sound both mother and son were attuned to, and as careful as Matthew was, the twelve morphine tablets sliding into his hand sounded exactly like what it was—drug theft. A herd of buffalo storming through the living room would have been more subtle. Matthew felt exposed—caught red-handed—yet to his astonishment, the quiet held. Un-fucking-believable! Making casual, he walked back to the Green Room. In his excitement to stash the pills, he bumped the Slumber King and overturned the brimming cup of urine. He scarcely gave it a thought—hell, it would dry on its own practically without an odor. Well, maybe. Anyhow, this was no time to worry about a little spilled piss.

Matthew hurried to his mother’s bedroom and peeked inside. When he saw her form under the covers, he went back to the kitchen. God! What a score! That fluffing-up procedure was amazing. He rubbed his hands together in delight. The perfect crime. He watched the Mr. Coffee machine sputter. Molasses in January. He had half a notion to unleash his expertise as a design engineer one last time and make a six-second Mr. Coffee, but the world that had treated him so badly didn’t deserve such a prize.