Retta Mae Wagons had already tuned out the show’s host as she thought about what had just happened to her. The little fat guy with the big ears and the patch over his eye was her savior. A heavenly messenger from somewhere, maybe from the Big Man Himself. Retta Mae was upset but a different kind of upset. She had been frightened by the noise and temporarily stunned by the blood and brains splattered all over her. It took some doing getting her stomach to settle down. But as for Rasheed Jamal’s being dead, as far as seeing the man she had been living with blown away while he sat beside her, that didn’t bother her at all. In fact, the event made Retta Mae happy for the first time in years.

Retta Mae Wagons didn’t want to die anymore. Quite the opposite. She wanted to live! Big-time. Life would be fun again now that Rasheed was dead as a flattened-out racoon after nine wheels of an eighteen-wheeler had rolled over it.

Retta Mae didn’t know what she’d use for money and didn’t care. Maybe she’d go back to hooking if she had to. As a matter of fact, Retta Mae kinda liked hooking. She’d call Dannyboy Marley that night. Soon as she got back to the hotel. Maybe she could see him tomorrow. She didn’t know what she’d do if Dannyboy didn’t offer her her job back, or her apartment. She wondered if the great apartment she had had across from the Jackson Hole Restaurant was still available. The one thing Retta Mae Wagons did know was this: She didn’t want any part of a damn execution.

“Retta Mae? Retta Mae?”

“Uh…yes?”

“I think you left us for a moment or two here on coast-to-coast television! Anyway,” Rip said, “I understand you’re going to give all that money you win, if you do win, that is, to a scholarship fund for underprivileged African-American kids.”

“Underprivileged high school seniors,” said an obviously irritated Retta Mae Wagons.

“Ha ha ha ha. Speak up, Retta Mae, honey,” said Rip, a creaky smile on his face, remembering too late that he’d been ordered not to do those fake laughs. Also he wondered if it was okay to call a colored girl honey.

“I said the money would be for high school seniors,” repeated Retta Mae, “who can’t afford to go to college. It doesn’t matter if the seniors are black, white, green, yellow, or chartreuse…honey.”

“Certainly. Any color at all. Right. Monique! Monique! Please come take…please come and escort Retta Mae Wagons to her soundproof capsule. Let’s have a nice round of applause for Retta Mae Wagons!”

There was modest applause.

In the control room, the producer said to Ms. Pickle, “Get me a new host by tomorrow morning.”

“Anyone in particular?” asked Ms. Pickle.