He knew his parents ate dinner around five o’clock, so he waited until six before calling to talk to the girls. They seemed in a surprisingly positive mood—his mom’s doing, no doubt; he knew his dad had nothing to do with it—and for that he was grateful. Apparently, his parents had gotten another cat since their last visit, a very playful kitten, and the girls were gushing about it. He realized as he talked to them that not only had he forgotten to get their homework for the week from their respective teachers, but he’d also forgotten to call the school about their absence. He made a note to do both on the Post-It pad next to the phone.

He hated to let them go, and when he finally hung up, the house seemed depressingly silent. Brad turned on the television, not caring what was on, just wanting to hear voices, and made himself some Pasta Roni for dinner. Not bothering with a bowl or plate, he ate out of the small square casserole dish he used to microwave his food.

He went to bed early, tired more from stress than actual work.

And was awakened by a gunshot and the shattering of glass.

He was instantly alert, noticing immediately that a bullet had broken his bedroom window then splintered Patty’s dresser against the opposite wall.

He rolled out of bed, grabbing his service revolver from the drawer in his nightstand and ducking low as he sped out of the bedroom, down the hall and to the front door. Peeking through the peephole, he saw a wide-angle vision of men in army fatigues with guns pointed at his house. Another bullet shattered the front window of the living room.

Brad ran around to the back door, hurrying outside and peeking around the corner of the house. None of the men were looking in this direction, so he approached through the side yard, staying close to the wall. He heard drunken laughter and a shouted taunt.

“Not so brave now, are you, Sheriff?”

He could see now that one of the men was Chet Yates. Seeing the others surrounding him in their surplus olive uniforms, he thought of what Hank had said about Chet’s “army” and the radio host’s on-air exhortations to shoot the sheriff.

There were a couple of ways to play this, and the most prudent one would be to hide until they left, then call for backup, but Brad was not in the mood for prudence today. He swung into a shooter’s stance and yelled, “Drop the weapons! Hands on your head!”

Chet’s face twisted with hate.

“Don’t do it, Chet! I don’t want to shoot you, but I will!”

“Just like you did to my brother, motherfucker!” Chet swung his weapon around.

And Brad put a bullet in his chest.