Standing out front of the hospital in the cool evening, he managed to bum a cigarette off a nervous-looking middle-aged woman who told him her husband had been in a car accident. She even lit the smoke for him with shaking hands before returning inside. The cigarette tasted of her grief. He threw it on the ground and took deep breaths of fresh air. Eventually, a police car from Westwend pulled up. The window came down and the officer waved to him. Owen knew the cop from him bringing his kids to the library.

The first thing he did upon arriving home was to find the bottle of bourbon in the kitchen cabinet and make himself a drink—ice and a little water—his usual. Then he sat at the table with his drink and wept for a good half hour. Eventually, he dried his eyes and forced himself to think of other things. He decided to go to work the next day, which was a decision not to have another bourbon. He had a sense he had to get back to himself, knowing the day’s impact had been fierce enough to blow him off course for the rest of his life.

Until then, he’d never really considered the life he’d made in Westwend to be all it was cracked up to be, but after what he’d been through, he now thought of it as very sweet. He’d inherited his parents’ house, free of charge. He was working in his hometown, in a job that utilized his college degrees. He had no lover or spouse to care for or about. No relatives in close proximity. The people who came to the library were pleasant enough, and some he liked immensely. He had time to read and to think in peace. He wondered if there would ever be anything important to him beside those things.

He finished his bourbon, and felt almost relaxed. An image of Helen smiling at him was trying to edge its way into his thoughts. He fought it and kept it at bay. “I’m exhausted,” he said aloud. Getting to his feet, he leaned against the table before pushing off and heading for the bedroom. His clothes fell where they would. Almost asleep, he managed to slip into a pair of blue gym shorts and a yellow T-shirt.

The cool sheet, the marsh-like mattress, the familiar rough army blanket, caused him to sigh with comfort. He curled up on his side, a classic fetal position, and closed his eyes. As soon as he was in the dark, he sensed the stirring of dreams at the edges of his consciousness. The promise of oblivion came on and rid him of the tension of grief and fear. He was nearly out when the gash on his left side announced it was going to make a nuisance of itself. Eventually, the pain forced him onto his back just before sleep.