About 'family health care modesto'|October 5 2009: States of disbelief

               Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａ               Ｓａｔｕｒｄａｙ               ｎｉｇｈｔ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｔｏ               ｇｏ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｆａｔｈｅｒ'ｓ               ｆｕｎｅｒａｌ.

Ｉ               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｍｉｓｓｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               Ｇｒｅｙｈｏｕｎｄ               ｔｏ               Ｍｏｄｅｓｔｏ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ａｌｒｅａｄｙ               ｒｕｎｎｉｎｇ               ｌａｔｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｇｏｔ               ｊｕｍｐｅｄ.

Ｙｏｕ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｏｗｎｔｏｗｎ               ｎｅｉｇｈｂｏｒｈｏｏｄ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ               ｉｎ               Ｓａｎ               Ｆｒａｎｃｉｓｃｏ?

Ｔｈａｔ               ｌａｓｔ               ｈａｌｆ               ｍｉｌｅ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｉｇｈｗａｙ?

Ｏｕｔｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               ｂａｎｋｅｒｓ'               ｈｏｕｒｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗｈｏｌｅ               ｐａｒｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｏｗｎ               ｉｓ               ｓｈｕｔ               ｄｏｗｎ,               ｗｉｔｈ               ｌｉｔ               ｓｔｒｅｅｔ               ｃｏｒｒｉｄｏｒｓ               ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｒａｉｎ               ｓｔｏｐｓ               ａｎｄ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｊｏｒ               ｆｉｎａｎｃｉａｌ               ｄｉｓｔｒｉｃｔ               ｂｕｉｌｄｉｎｇｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｈａｖｅ               ａｌｌ-ｈｏｕｒｓ               ｓｔａｆｆ.

Ｍｙ               ｂｕｓ               ｌｅｆｔ               ａｔ               ｍｉｄｎｉｇｈｔ               ｓｈａｒｐ,               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｗａｙ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｕｎｌｉｔ               ａｒｅａ               ｔｏ               ｓａｖｅ               ｔｉｍｅ.

Ａｓ               Ｉ               ｈｅａｄｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｓｔ               ｓｔｒｅｅｔ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｉｒｃｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｆｌｏｏｄｌｉｇｈｔｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｕｒｒｏｕｎｄｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ,               ａ               ｊｕｍｐｅｒ               ｈｅｌｄ               ａ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｇｒｅｅｎ               ｄｏｔ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｃｈｅｓｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ａｎ               ａｌｌｅｙ.
               Ｉ'ｍ               ａ               ｓｅｎｓｉｂｌｅ               ｍａｎ.

Ｉ               ｋｅｐｔ               ｍｙ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｕｌｅｓ.

Ｉ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｉｍｍｅｄｉａｔｅｌｙ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｕｔｈ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ａｌｌｅｙ               ａｎｄ               ｈｅｌｄ               ｍｙ               ｈａｎｄｓ               ｏｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｙ               ｓｉｄｅｓ,               ｍｏｖｉｎｇ               ｓｌｏｗｌｙ.
               Ｔｈｅ               ｊｕｍｐｅｒ               ｋｅｐｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｕｌｅｓ.
               Ｈｅ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｇｅｓｔｕｒｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｇｒｕｎｔｅｄ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｅｍｐｔｉｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｐｏｃｋｅｔｓ               ａｎｄ               ｓｈｏｗｅｄ               ｈｉｍ               (ｓｏｍｅ)               ｏｆ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ.

Ｈｅ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｓｅａｒｃｈｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｏｒ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｏｐｅｎ               ｍｙ               ｂａｃｋｐａｃｋ.

Ｈｅ               ｐｏｋｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｉｎｇｅｒ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｓｔａｃｋ               ｏｆ               ｐｌａｓｔｉｃ               Ｉ               ｈｅｌｄ               ｏｕｔ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｕｍｂｅｄ               ｔｗｏ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｃａｒｄｓ               ｏｆｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｏｐ,               ｌｅａｖｉｎｇ               ｍｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｓｔ.

Ｈｅ               ｐｅｅｌｅｄ               ｆｉｖｅ               ｏｒ               ｓｉｘ               ｈｕｎｄｒｅｄ               ｄｏｌｌａｒｓ               ｉｎ               ｐａｐｅｒ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｕｔｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｒｏｌｌ               (Ｉ'ｄ               ｆｉｇｕｒｅ               ｏｕｔ               ｅｘａｃｔｌｙ               ｈｏｗ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｌａｔｅｒ)               ａｎｄ               ｗａｖｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｏｎ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｒｅｅｔ.
               Ｈｅ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈａｔ               ｉｍｐｒｅｓｓｉｖｅ-ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ               ａｎｄ               ｍａｙｂｅ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔａｋｅｎ               ｈｉｍ               ｂｕｔ               ｗｈｙ               ｒｉｓｋ               ｉｔ?

Ｈｅ               ｋｅｐｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｕｌｅｓ.

Ｉ               ｋｅｐｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｕｌｅｓ.

Ｎｏ               ｏｎｅ               ｇｏｔ               ｈｕｒｔ.

Ｉ'ｍ               ｇｒａｔｅｆｕｌ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｍ.
               Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｍｙ               ｏｗｎ               ｆａｕｌｔ.

Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｃａｒｅｌｅｓｓ.

Ｉ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｇｏｎｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｗａｙ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ｅｍｂａｒｃａｄｅｒｏ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｉｋｅｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈｅｌｄ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂａｙ,               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｔｈｅ               ａｌｌ-ｎｉｇｈｔ               ｓｔｒｅｅｔ               ｌｉｇｈｔｓ               ａｎｄ               ｃａｍｅｒａｓ               ａｒｅ.
               Ｉ               ｚｉｇ-ｚａｇｇｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｉｔ               ａｒｅａ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｅｎｔｅｒ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｒｅｅｔ               ａｎｄ               ｍａｄｅ               ｉｔ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｌｏｏｄｌｉｇｈｔ               ｐｅｒｉｍｅｔｅｒ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ               ｉｎ               ｓｅｃｏｎｄｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｊｕｍｐｅｒ               ｈａｄ               ｕｓｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｗｈａｔｅｖｅｒ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｓａｖｅｄ               ｂｙ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｏｒｔｅｒ               ｗａｙ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ.
               Ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｒｕｓｈｅｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ               ａｌｌ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｂｒｅａｔｈ               ａｎｄ               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｍｉｓｓｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ.

Ｉ               ｐｒｉｎｔｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｍｙ               ｔｉｃｋｅｔ               ａｔ               ｈｏｍｅ,               ａｎｄ               Ｓｅｃｕｒｉｔｙ               ｈａｄ               ａｌｒｅａｄｙ               ａｐｐｒｏｖｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｔｒａｖｅｌ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｔｏｐ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｕｎｔｅｒ               ｆｏｒ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｗａｔｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｆｏｏｄ               ｂａｒｓ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｓｔ               ｐａｓｓｅｎｇｅｒ               ｈａｄ               ａｌｒｅａｄｙ               ｇｏｎｅ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｃａｎｎｅｒｓ.

Ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｔａｒｔｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｒｏｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔａｉｒｓ               ｕｐ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｃｒｏｓｓｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｈｉｃｋ               ｗｈｉｔｅ               ｐａｉｎｔｅｄ               ｌｉｎｅ               ｍａｒｋｉｎｇ               ｏｆｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｅｃｕｒｉｔｙ               ａｒｅａ.

Ｉ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｏｆｆ               ｍｙ               ｓｈｏｅｓ,               ｍｙ               ｂｅｌｔ,               ａｎｄ               ｍｙ               ｍｅｔａｌ-ｒｉｍｍｅｄ               ｇｌａｓｓｅｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｐｕｔ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｎｖｅｙｏｒ               ｂｅｌｔ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｙ               ｂａｃｋｐａｃｋ.

Ｉ               ｗａｌｋｅｄ               ｏｎ,               ｈｏｌｄｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｂｒｅａｔｈ               ａｎｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｇｒｉｎ               ｐａｓｔｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｆａｃｅ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｈｏｐｉｎｇ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｈｅｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｃｈｉｐ               ａｎｄ               ｂａｔｔｅｒｙ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｌａｓｔｉｃ               ｂａｎｄ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｍｙ               ｇｕｎ               ｗｏｒｋｅｄ               ｌｉｋｅ               Ｎｉｃｋ               ｏｎ               Ｍａｒｋｅｔ               Ｓｔｒｅｅｔ               ｐｒｏｍｉｓｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｉｔ               ｗｏｕｌｄ.

Ｉｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｅｌｄ               ｉｔ               ｐｒｏｄｕｃｅｄ               ｗａｓ               ａｓ               ｓｔｒｏｎｇ               ａｓ               ｈｅ               ｓａｉｄ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ,               ｉｔ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｎｏｔ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｍａｓｋ               ｍｙ               ｇｕｎ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｃａｎｎｅｒ,               ｉｔ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｏｂｓｃｕｒｅ               ｓｅｎｓｏｒ               ｒｅａｄｉｎｇｓ               ｏｆ               ｅｖｅｒｙｔｈｉｎｇ               ｅｌｓｅ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｌｏｗｅｒ               ｒｅｇｉｏｎｓ.

Ｍｙ               ｉｎｔｅｒｅｓｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｗａｓ               ｓｏｍｅｗｈａｔ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｔｈａｎ               ｊｕｓｔ               ａｂｓｔｒａｃｔ.

Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｐａｃｋｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｏｂａｃｃｏ,               ａ               ｓｅａｌｅｄ               ｂｏｔｔｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｗｈｉｓｋｅｙ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｔｗｏ               ｅｂｏｏｋｓ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｐｈｏｎｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｎｏｔ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ａｐｐｒｏｖｅｄ               ｌｉｓｔ.

Ｓｕｒｅ,               ｔｈｅ               ｇｕｎ               ｗａｓ               ｉｌｌｅｇａｌ,               ｂｕｔ               ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ               ｈａｄ               'ｅｍ.

Ｍｏｓｔ               ｃｏｐｓ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｗａｖｅ               ｍｅ               ｏｎ               ｆｏｒ               ｉｔ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｓｔｕｆｆ               ｍｅａｎｔ               ｆｉｎｅｓ               ｏｒ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｒａｚｏｒ               ｗｉｒｅ.
               Ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｈａｖｅ               'ｅｍ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｔｒａｖｅｌｉｎｇ,               ａｎｄ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ａｒｅｎ'ｔ               ａｌｗａｙｓ               ｗｉｌｌｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｔｒａｄｅ               ｔｈｉｎｇｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｏｎｅｙ.
               Ｉ               ｈｅｌｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｍｙ               ｔｉｃｋｅｔ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               Ｓｅｃｕｒｉｔｙ               "ａｐｐｒｏｖｅｄ"               ｌｏｇｏ,               ｍｙ               ｖａｃｃｉｎａｔｉｏｎ               ｃａｒｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｍｙ               ｓｔａｔｅ               ＩＤ.

Ｂｌｕｅ               ｌａｓｅｒｓ               ｆｌｉｃｋｅｒｅｄ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｔｈｅｍ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｗｈｉｔｅ               ｆｌａｓｈ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｅｙｅｓ               ａｓ               Ｓｅｃｕｒｉｔｙ               ｃｈｅｃｋｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｒｅｔｉｎａｓ               ｔｏ               ｖｅｒｉｆｙ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｍｅ               (ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｓａｍｅ               ｍｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈａｄ               ｇｏｔｔｅｎ               ａｐｐｒｏｖａｌ               ｔｏ               ｔｒａｖｅｌ).

Ｉ               ｔｒｏｔｔｅｄ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｒｉｄ.

Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏ               ａｌａｒｍ.

Ｎｏ               ｏｎｅ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｍｅ.

Ｂｏｒｅｄ               ｓｅｃｕｒｉｔｙ               ｇｕａｒｄｓ               ｗａｖｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ａｎｄ               ｇａｖｅ               ｍｅ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｔｒａｙ               ｂａｃｋ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｙ               ｓｈｏｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ｂａｃｋｐａｃｋ               ａｎｄ               ｓｔｕｆｆ.
               Ｉ               ｄｕｍｐｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｓｈｏｅｓ               ｏｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｒｏｕｎｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｒａｙ               ａｎｄ               ｓｔｅｐｐｅｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅｍ,               ｚｉｐｐｅｄ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｕｐ,               ｇａｔｈｅｒｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｍｙ               ｔｈｉｎｇｓ               ａｎｄ               ｓｌｕｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｂａｃｋｐａｃｋ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｏｎｅ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｓｈｏｖｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｗａｌｌｅｔ               ａｎｄ               ｋｅｙｓ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｐｏｃｋｅｔｓ.

Ｉ               ｒａｎ               ｔｏｗａｒｄｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｇａｔｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａｎ               ｉｔｃｈｉｎｇ               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ               ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ               ｍｙ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ               ｂｌａｄｅｓ               ｂｕｔ               ｎｏ               ｏｎｅ               ｓｈｏｕｔｅｄ               "Ｓｔｏｐ!"
               Ｎｉｃｋ               ｈａｄ               ｇｏｔｔｅｎ               ｍｅ               ａ               ｗｏｒｋｉｎｇ               ｓｃａｎｎｅｒ               ｂｌｉｎｄｅｒ.

Ｉ               ｒｅｓｏｌｖｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｉｎｖｅｓｔｉｇａｔｅ               ｗｈａｔｅｖｅｒ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｂａｒｇａｉｎｓ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｂｅ               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅａｒ               ｅｎｔｒａｎｃｅ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               Ｍａｒｋｅｔ               Ｓｔｒｅｅｔ               ｓｔａｌｌ.
               Ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｇｏｔ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｇａｔｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｄｏｏｒ               ｗａｓ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｓｔａｒｔｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｃｌｏｓｅ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｅａｖｙ               ａｒｍｏｒ               ｃｒｅａｋｅｄ               ａｓ               ｉｔ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ,               ｔｈｅｎ               ｒｅｏｐｅｎｅｄ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｉｒｒｉｔａｔｅｄ               ｄｒｉｖｅｒ               ｓｃｏｗｌｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ａｔ               ｍｅ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｅａｔ               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｓｍｉｌｅｄ               ａｔ               ｈｉｍ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈａｎｋｅｄ               ｈｉｍ               ｗａｒｍｌｙ               ａｎｄ               ｒｕｓｈｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔａｉｒｓ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ.
               Ｈｅ               ｓｌａｍｍｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｏｏｒ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｍｅ               ａｎｄ               ｉｔ               ｓｅａｌｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｗｈｕｆｆ               ａｎｄ               ｍｙ               ｅａｒｓ               ｐｏｐｐｅｄ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｍｏｖｅ               ａ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｈｉｔｅ               ｌｉｎｅ               ｍａｒｋｅｄ               "Ｄｏ               Ｎｏｔ               Ｓｔａｎｄ               Ｉｎ               Ｆｒｏｎｔ               Ｏｆ               Ｔｈｉｓ               Ｌｉｎｅ"               ｂｕｔ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｔｏｏ               ｂａｄ,               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｓｔａｎｄ.

Ｉ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ａｉｓｌｅ,               ｓｗｉｎｇｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｂａｃｋｐａｃｋ               ｂｙ               ｏｎｅ               ｓｔｒａｐ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｍｙ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ.
               Ｔｈｅ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｎｅｗｓ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｓｅａｔｓ               ｌｅｆｔ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｂａｄ               ｎｅｗｓ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｌａｓｔ               ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｔｈｒｏｏｍ.
               Ｉ               ｂａｓｉｃａｌｌｙ               ｒａｎ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ａｉｓｌｅ               ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｏｗｓ               ｏｆ               ｓｅａｔｓ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｊｅｒｋｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｓｈｉｍｍｉｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｇｈｔ               ｔｕｒｎ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｔｅｒｍｉｎａｌ               ｏｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｉｇｈｗａｙ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｒｉｄｇｅ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｉｎｌａｎｄ.

Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               Ｉ               ｂａｎｇｅｄ               ａｇａｉｎｓｔ               ａｎｙｏｎｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｙ               ｂａｇ               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄ               ｓｔｕｂ               ｍｙ               ｔｏｅ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｓａｔ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｒａｔｈｅｒ               ｓｕｄｄｅｎｌｙ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｒｅａｃｈｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｒｉｇｈｔ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｉｎｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｒｉｖｅｒ               ａｃｃｅｌｅｒａｔｅｄ               ｐａｒｔｉｃｕｌａｒｌｙ               ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ.
               Ｄａｍｎ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｓｉｔｔｉｎｇ               ｒｉｇｈｔ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｉｇｇｉｎｇ               ｂａｔｈｒｏｏｍ.

Ｐｅｒｈａｐｓ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｆｅｌｌｏｗ               ｐａｓｓｅｎｇｅｒｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｈｏｒｔｅｒ-ｄｉｓｔａｎｃｅ               ｃｏｍｍｕｔｅｒｓ               ａｎｄ               ａｓ               ｗｅ               ｈｅａｄｅｄ               ｅａｓｔ,               ｓｏｍｅ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｇｅｔ               ｏｆｆ               ａｎｄ               ｏｐｅｎ               ｕｐ               ｓｏｍｅ               ａ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ｓｅａｔｓ.
               Ｏｎｃｅ               ｕｐｏｎ               ａ               ｔｉｍｅ,               ｅｖｅｎ               ｆｏｒ               ａｗｈｉｌｅ               ｒｉｇｈｔ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               Ｅｍｅｒｇｅｎｃｙ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ,               ｉｔ               ｈａｄ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｂｅｅｎ               ａ               ｍａｔｔｅｒ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｃｏｕｐｌｅ-ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｈｏｕｒｓ               ｔｏ               ｇｏ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               Ｃｉｔｙ,               Ｃｏｕｎｔｙ               ａｎｄ               Ｉｓｌａｎｄ               ｏｆ               Ｓａｎ               Ｆｒａｎｃｉｓｃｏ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｉｔｙ               ｏｆ               Ｍｏｄｅｓｔｏ               ｉｎ               Ｓａｎ               Ｊｏａｑｕｉｎ               Ｃｏｕｎｔｙ,               ｉｎ               Ｃａｌｉｆｏｒｎｉａ'ｓ               ｃｅｎｔｒａｌ               ｖａｌｌｅｙ.

Ｎｏｗ,               ｉｔ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｂｅ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｅｉｇｈｔ               ｈｏｕｒｓ.
               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｏｖｅｒｌｙ               ｏｐｔｉｍｉｓｔｉｃ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｓｕｎ               ｃａｍｅ               ｕｐ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｅ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｍｏｖｅ.

Ｓｉｘ-ｐｌｕｓ               ｈｏｕｒｓ               ｈａｄ               ｐａｓｓｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｗａｉｔｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｃｒｏｓｓ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂａｙ               Ｂｒｉｄｇｅ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｉｎｌａｎｄ.
               Ｉ               ｓｐｅｎｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｗａｔｃｈｉｎｇ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｗａｌｋ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ａｉｓｌｅ               ｐａｓｔ               ｍｙ               ｓｅａｔ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｔｈｒｏｏｍ,               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｉｄｌｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｆｕｌｌ               ａｒｍｏｒ               ｓｅａｌ               ａｎｄ               ｉｔ               ｇｏｔ               ｓｔｕｆｆｙ               ｉｎｓｉｄｅ.

Ｗｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ａｗａｉｔｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｓｏｌｕｔｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｊｕｒｉｓｄｉｃｔｉｏｎａｌ               ｄｉｓｐｕｔｅ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｈｅｃｋｐｏｉｎｔ               ｍａｉｎｔａｉｎｅｄ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ＳＦ               Ｂａｙ               Ａｒｅａ               Ｒｅｇｉｏｎａｌ               Ａｕｔｈｏｒｉｔｙ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｘｉｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｒｉｄｇｅ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｉｎｌａｎｄ.
               Ｗｈｅｎ               ｗｅ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｄｒｏｖｅ               ｕｐ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｈｅｃｋｐｏｉｎｔ               Ｉ               ｓａｗ               "ＳＦＢＡＲＡ"               ａｒｍｂａｎｄｓ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｏｌｄｉｅｒｓ               ｗｈｏ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｇｕａｒｄｉｎｇ               ｉｔ.

Ｉ               ｈｅａｒｄ               ａ               ｃｏｕｐｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｓｈｏｔｓ               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｒｏｗｄ               Ｉ               ｐｅｅｒｅｄ               ａｔ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｒｋｅｎｅｄ               ｂｕｓ               ｗｉｎｄｏｗ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｐａｒｔ               ｉｎ               ｐａｎｉｃ               ａｎｄ               ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｃａｌｍ               ｓｏｍｅｗｈａｔ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｇａｔｅｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｏｏｎ               ｔａｋｅｎ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｂｙ               ｔｒｏｏｐｅｒｓ               ｉｎ               ｏｒａｎｇｅ-ｂｒｏｗｎ               Ｅｕｒｏ               ｈｅｌｍｅｔｓ,               "ｐｅａｃｅｋｅｅｐｅｒｓ,"               ａｎｄ               ａ               ｓｐｒｉｎｋｌｉｎｇ               ｏｆ               Ｕ.Ｎ.

ｂｌｕｅ               ｈｅｌｍｅｔｓ               ａｐｐｅａｒｅｄ,               ｚｉｐｐｉｎｇ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｌｉｎｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｗａｉｔｉｎｇ               ｃａｒｓ               ｏｎ               ｏｎｅ-ｗｈｅｅｌｅｄ               ｓｃｏｏｔｅｒｓ.
               Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｓｅｅ               ａｎｙ               ｒｅｂｅｌｓ               ｏｆ               ａｎｙ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｆａｃｔｉｏｎｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ａ               Ｕ.Ｓ.

Ａｒｍｙ               ｃｏｎｖｏｙ               ｐａｓｓｅｄ               ａｈｅａｄ               ｏｆ               ｕｓ,               ＡＰＣｓ               ａｎｄ               ｈｏｖｅｒｃｒａｆｔ               ｍｏｓｔｌｙ,               ｂｕｚｚｉｎｇ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｉｇｈｗａｙ               ａｌｏｎｇｓｉｄｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｉｋｅｓ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂａｙ.

Ｔｈｅｙ               ａｌｓｏ               ｈａｄ               ｃｈｏｐｐｅｒｓ               ａｎｄ               ａ               ｃｏｕｐｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｐｏｄｓ               ｗｈｉｚｚｉｎｇ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｏｖｅｒｈｅａｄ.

Ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｌａｎｄｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               Ａｒｍｙ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｇａｔｅｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               Ｅｕｒｏｓ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｌｉｎｅｓ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｔｏ               ｅｄｇｅ               ｆｏｒｗａｒｄ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗａｖｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｆｅｗ               ｖｅｈｉｃｌｅｓ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ.
               Ｔｈｅｎ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｄｅｃｉｄｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｔａｋｅ               ａｐａｒｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｖａｎ               ｉｎ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｕｓ.
               Ｉ               ｓａｔ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｓｅａｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ａｎｄ               ｃｈｅｗｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｂｕｓ               ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ               ｆｏｏｄ               ｂａｒｓ               ａｎｄ               ｓｉｐｐｅｄ               ｐｌａｓｔｉｃｙ-ｔａｓｔｉｎｇ               ｗａｔｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｗｏｎｄｅｒｅｄ               ｗｈｙ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅｒｅ.
               Ｔｗｏ               ｄａｙｓ               ａｇｏ,               Ｔｈｕｒｓｄａｙ               ｎｉｇｈｔ,               Ｉ               ｇｏｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｍａｉｌ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｙ               ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ,               ｗｈｏ               ａｐｐａｒｅｎｔｌｙ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏｗ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｆａｍｉｌｙ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｌｅｆｔ.

"Ｓｔａｎ:               Ｙｒ               ｆａｔｈｅｒ               ｄｉｅｄ               ｌａｓｔ               ｎｉｔｅ               ｉｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｌｅｅｐ.

Ｆｕｎａｒａｌ               ｉｓ               Ｍｏｎ               ａｔ               Ｔｅｎ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ＡＭ               ｉｎ               Ｍｏｄｅｓｔｏ.

Ｃｏｍｅ               2               ｍｙ               ｈｏｕｓｅ.

Ｈｅ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ｙｏｕ."               Ｓｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｈｅｍｉｃａｌ               ｐｏｉｓｏｎｉｎｇ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｄａｄ'ｓ               Ａｒｍｙ               ｄａｙｓ               ｉｎ               Ｉｒａｎ               ｈａｄ               ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ               ｃａｕｇｈｔ               ｕｐ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｌｄ               ｍａｎ.

Ｉ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｈｅ               ｈａｄ               ｈａｌｆ               ａ               ｄｏｚｅｎ               ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｔ               ｔｙｐｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｃａｎｃｅｒ.
               Ｍｏｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｃｒａｚｙ.

"Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ａｔ               ｌｅａｓｔ               ｔｗｏ               ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｔ               ｋｉｎｄｓ               ｏｆ               ｒｅｂｅｌ               ｔｅｒｒｉｔｏｒｙ,"               ｍｙ               ｒｏｏｍｍａｔｅ               Ｓａｒａｈ               ｐｏｉｎｔｅｄ               ｏｕｔ.

"Ｊｕｓｔ               'ｃａｕｓｅ               ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ               ａ               ｔｒｅａｔｙ               ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ               ｍｅａｎ               ｙｏｕ'ｌｌ               ｂｅ               ｓａｆｅ."               Ｈｅｒ               ｂｏｙｆｒｉｅｎｄ               Ｐｅｔｒｏｓ               ｗａｓ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｉｎｔ.

"Ｙｏｕ'ｌｌ               ｇｅｔ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｓｉｌｌｙ               ａｓｓ               ｋｉｌｌｅｄ."
               Ｉ               ｔａｌｋｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｏｌｄ               Ｂｏｂ               Ｙａｎｇ,               ｔｈｅ               ｅｌｄｅｒｌｙ               ｍａｎ               Ｉ               ｈｕｎｇ               ｏｕｔ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｊｏｂ               ｃｅｎｔｅｒ               ｓｉｎｃｅ               ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ               ｌａｉｄ               ｏｆｆ.

Ｗｅ               ｈｅｌｄ               ｅａｃｈ               ｏｔｈｅｒ'ｓ               ｐｌａｃｅｓ               ｉｎ               ｌｉｎｅ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｓｏｍｅｂｏｄｙ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｇｏ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｓｔ               ｒｏｏｍ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｒａｄｅｄ               ｔｉｐｓ               ｏｎ               ａｐｐｌｉｃａｔｉｏｎｓ               ａｎｄ               ｎｅｗ               ｊｏｂ               ｐｏｓｔｉｎｇｓ.

Ｂｏｂ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｓｔ               ｐｒｏｆｏｕｎｄｌｙ,               ｃｏｎｆｉｄｅｎｔｌｙ               ｏｐｔｉｍｉｓｔｉｃ               ｈｕｍａｎ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               Ｉ               ｈａｖｅ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｍｅｔ.

Ａｃｃｏｒｄｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｍ,               ａｎｙ               ｄａｙ               ｎｏｗ               ｗｅ'ｄ               ｂｏｔｈ               ｍａｋｅ               ｉｔ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｄｅｓｋ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｏｆｆｉｃｅ               ｈｏｕｒｓ               ｅｎｄｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｅ'ｄ               ｇｅｔ               Ｒｅｃｏｎｓｔｒｕｃｔｉｏｎ               ｊｏｂｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｆｕｌｌ               ｍｅｄｉｃａｌ.

Ｈｏｗｅｖｅｒ,               ｔｈａｔ               ｏｐｔｉｍｉｓｍ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｓｔｏｐ               ｈｉｍ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｓａｙｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｂｅ               ａｎｙ               ｐｒｏｂｌｅｍ               ｈｏｌｄｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｐｌａｃｅ               ｏｎ               ｌｉｎｅ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               Ｉ               ｇｏｔ               ｂａｃｋ.
               "               Ｙｏｕ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｓｕｒｅ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｙｏｕｒ               ａｄｖｅｎｔｕｒｅｓ,"               Ｂｏｂ               ｇｒｕｎｔｅｄ.

Ｈｍｍｍ.

Ａｎｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｐｔｉｍｉｓｔ'ｓ               ｖｅｒｓｉｏｎ.
               Ｉ'ｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｇｏｔｔｅｎ               ｌａｉｄ               ｏｆｆ               ａ               ｃｏｕｐｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｏｎｔｈｓ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ.

Ｉｔ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ａ               ｃｒａｐｐｙ               ｃｌｅｒｉｃａｌ               ｊｏｂ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｌａｗ               ｆｉｒｍ               ｉｎ               ｄｏｗｎｔｏｗｎ               Ｓａｎ               Ｆｒａｎｃｉｓｃｏ.

Ａｓ               ａ               30-ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｄａｙ               ａｎｄ               ａｇｅ,               Ｉ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｈａｄ               ａｎｙ               ｉｌｌｕｓｉｏｎｓ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ａ               ｃａｒｅｅｒ.

Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａｌｗａｙｓ               ｊｕｓｔ               ａ               ｊｏｂ.

Ｉ               ｍｉｌｋｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｂｅｎｎｉｅｓ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｌａｓｔ,               ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ               ａ               ｔｏｏｔｈ               ｆｉｌｌｅｄ,               ａ               ｃａｎｃｅｒ               ｂｏｏｓｔｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｈｏｌｄ               ｏｆｆ               ｍｙ               ｈｅｒｅｄｉｔａｒｙ               ｃｏｌｏｎ               ｃａｎｃｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               ａ               ｓｈｏｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｔｅｓｔ               ｆｌｕ,               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｌａｓｔ               ｄａｙ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｅａｌｔｈ               ｃｏｖｅｒａｇｅ               ｃｕｔ               ｏｆｆ.
               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｓｉｎｇｌｅ,               ｕｎｅｍｐｌｏｙｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｆａｔｈｅｒ'ｓ               ｆｕｎｅｒａｌ.

Ｎｏｔ               ｍｙ               ｂｅｓｔ               ｄａｙ.
               Ｉ               ｈａｄｎ'ｔ               ｅｖｅｎ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｃｌｏｓｅ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｆａｔｈｅｒ.

Ｙｅｔ               ｈｅｒｅ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ,               ｔａｋｉｎｇ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｕｇｅ               ｏｒｄｅａｌ               ｏｆ               ｃｒｏｓｓ-ｃｏｕｎｔｒｙ               ｔｒａｖｅｌｉｎｇ.

Ｗａｓ               ｉｔ               ｗｏｒｔｈ               ｉｔ?

Ａｌｌ               ｔｈｉｓ,               ｔｏ               ｍｅｅｔ               ｕｐ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｌｄ               ｒｅｌａｔｉｖｅ               Ｉ               ｈａｒｄｌｙ               ｋｎｅｗ?
               Ｍａｙｂｅ               Ｉ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｈｅａｒ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｗｏｒｄｓ               ｓｐｏｋｅｎ               ｏｖｅｒ               ａ               ｃｒｅｍａｔｉｏｎ               ｕｒｎ?

Ｉ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｓｕｒｅ               ｏｆ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｐｏｐ'ｓ               ｂｅｌｉｅｆｓ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｌａｔｅｌｙ               -               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｓｔ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｐｌａｙｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               Ｈａｒｉ               Ｋｒｉｓｈｎａｓ,               ｔｈｅ               Ｐｏｓｔ-Ｍｉｌｌｅｎｎｉａｌｓ,               Ｊｅｗｓ               ｆｏｒ               Ｊｅｓｕｓ,               Ｔｉｂｅｔａｎ               Ｂｕｄｄｈｉｓｍ,               ａｎｄ               Ｓｃｉｅｎｔｏｌｏｇｙ,               ａｌｏｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｈｏｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｏｔｈｅｒｓ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｈｅａｒｄ               ｏｆ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ.

Ｍｏｍ               ｏｎｃｅ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｍｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｔ               ｍａｎ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ｃａｍｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｉｒａｎ.

"Ｙｏｕ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｓｅｅｎ               ｈｉｍ               ｔｈｅｎ,               ｓｏｎ.

Ｔａｌｌ,               ａｎｄ               ｐｒｏｕｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｂｅａｕｔｉｆｕｌ               ｕｎｉｆｏｒｍ."               Ｍａｙｂｅ               ｓｏ,               ｂｕｔ               ａｌｌ               Ｉ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｉｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ａｓ               ｆａｒ               ｂａｃｋ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｃａｎ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ,               Ｄａｄ               ｗａｓ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｕｒｅ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｉｎ               ｇｅｎｅｒａｌ.

Ａｎｄ               ａｆｔｅｒ               Ｍｏｍ               ｄｉｅｄ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｆｌｕ,               ｈｅ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｌｏｓｅ               ａｌｌ               ｈｉｓ               ｉｎｔｅｌｌｉｇｅｎｃｅ               ｐｏｉｎｔｓ.
               Ｗｈａｔ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｈｅ               ｈａｖｅ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｅ?

Ａｔ               ｍｏｓｔ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｃｏｌｌｅｃｔ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｏｌｄ               ｐａｐｅｒｓ,               ｍａｙｂｅ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｄｒｉｖｅｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｏｌｄ               ｐｉｘ               ｏｎ               'ｅｍ.
               Ｓｏ,               ｎｏｔ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｓｅｎｔｉｍｅｎｔ,               ａｎｄ               ｍｙ               ｆａｍｉｌｙ               ａｉｎ'ｔ               ｒｉｃｈ,               ｓｏ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏ               ｍｏｎｅｙ               ｏｒ               ｐｒｏｐｅｒｔｙ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｌｌｅｃｔ.

Ｉｎ               ｆａｃｔ,               ｋｎｏｗｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｄａｄ,               Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｅ               ｌｕｃｋｙ               ｉｆ               ｓｏｍｅ               ａｒｒｅａｒｓ-ｃｏｌｌｅｃｔｏｒ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｔｒｙ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｌｌｅｃｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｅ.
               Ｉ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｗｈｙ               Ｉ               ｗｅｎｔ.
               Ｓｏ               ｗｅ               ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ               ｇｏｔ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｒｉｄｇｅ,               ｄｒｉｖｉｎｇ               ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｉｇｈｔ               ｇｒａｙ               ｐｌａｓｔｉｃ               ｔｕｂｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｈｒｏｕｄｅｄ               ｅａｃｈ               ｌａｎｅ,               ｂｌｏｃｋｉｎｇ               ａｎｙ               ｖｉｅｗ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｗａｔｅｒ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｔｕｂｉｎｇ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｂｉｔ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｓｅｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｉｐｐｉｎｇ               ｃｒａｎｅｓ               ｔｏｗｅｒｉｎｇ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂａｙ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｗｅ               ｇｏｔ               ｎｅａｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｅｃｕｒｉｔｙ               ａｒｅａｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｐｏｒｔ               ｏｆ               Ｏａｋｌａｎｄ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｅｅｗａｙ               ｔｕｒｎｅｄ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｕｂｅｓ               ａｇａｉｎ.

Ｔｈｅｙ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ａｇａｉｎ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ｅａｓｔ               Ｂａｙ               ｃｉｔｙ               ｏｆ               Ｏａｋｌａｎｄ.

               Ａ               ｂｕｎｃｈ               ｏｆ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｇｏｔ               ｏｆｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｉｎ               Ｏａｋｌａｎｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｌａｔｅｒ               ｉｎ               Ｌｉｖｅｒｍｏｒｅ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｇｏｔ               ａ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ｓｅａｔ               ｕｐ               ｎｅａｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｏｎｔ.

Ｏｎｃｅ               ｗｅ               ｇｏｔ               ｐａｓｔ               ｔｈｅ               Ｆｅｄｅｒａｌ               ｃｈｅｃｋｐｏｉｎｔ               ａｔ               Ａｌｔａｍｏｕｎｔ               Ｐａｓｓ               ｗｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｉｎ               ｒｅｂｅｌ               ｔｅｒｒｉｔｏｒｙ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｒｉｖｅｒ               ｈａｄ               ｕｓ               ａｌｌ               ｓｈｕｔ               ｏｆｆ               ｏｕｒ               ｐｈｏｎｅｓ.

Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｓｅｅ               ａｎｙ               ｔｒｏｏｐｓ,               ｊｕｓｔ               ａ               ｓｉｎｇｌｅ               ｍａｎ               ｉｎ               ｃｉｖｉｌｉａｎ               ｃｌｏｔｈｉｎｇ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｇａｔｅ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｒｉｖｅｒ               ｏｐｅｎｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｗｉｎｄｏｗ               ｊｕｓｔ               ａ               ｃｒａｃｋ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｅｘｃｈａｎｇｅｄ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｍｕｆｆｌｅｄ               ｗｏｒｄｓ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｐｅｎｉｎｇ.
               Ｔｈｅ               ｄｒｉｖｅｒ               ｐａｓｓｅｄ               ａｎ               ｅｎｖｅｌｏｐｅ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ,               ｒｅｓｅａｌｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｉｎｄｏｗ,               ａｎｄ               ｄｒｏｖｅ               ｓｌｏｗｌｙ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｄｅｓｅｒｔｅｄ               ｆｒｅｅｗａｙ.

Ｉ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｓｅｅ               ａｎｙ               ｔｒｏｏｐｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｈｉｌｌｓ               ａｌｌ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｕｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｄｒｉｖｅｒ               ｄｒｏｖｅ               ｃａｒｅｆｕｌｌｙ               ａｎｄ               ｓｌｏｗｌｙ               ａｓ               ｉｆ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｆｉｌｌｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｒｅｂｅｌｓ.

Ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ,               ｗｅ               ｃａｍｅ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｉｌｌｓ               ａｎｄ               ｗｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ｓａｎ               Ｊｏａｑｕｉｎ               Ｖａｌｌｅｙ.
               Ｉ               ｈａｄｎ'ｔ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｉｎｌａｎｄ               ｉｎ               ｙｅａｒｓ.

Ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｔｈｅ               Ｅｍｅｒｇｅｎｃｙ,               ｔｈｉｓ               ａｒｅａ               ｏｆ               Ｃａｌｉｆｏｒｎｉａ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｉｃｈｅｓｔ               ｆａｒｍｌａｎｄ               ｉｎ               Ｎｏｒｔｈ               Ａｍｅｒｉｃａ.

Ｉｔ               ｅｍｐｌｏｙｅｄ               ｍｉｌｌｉｏｎｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｆｅｄ               ｍｉｌｌｉｏｎｓ               ｍｏｒｅ.

Ｎｏｗ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｌａｒｇｅ               ｐａｒｔｓ               ｏｆ               ｉｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｄｅｓｅｒｔ.

Ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｌｉｔｉｃａｌ               ｆａｃｔｉｏｎｓ               ｈａｄ               ｓｕｒｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｂｕｓｙ               --               ｗｅ               ｐａｓｓｅｄ               ｓｅｖｅｒａｌ               ｃｈｅｃｋｐｏｉｎｔｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ,               ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ,               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎｔｏ               Ｆｅｄｅｒａｌ               ｔｅｒｒｉｔｏｒｙ.
               Ｔｗｏ               ｓｏｌｄｉｅｒｓ               ｃａｍｅ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ,               ｏｎｅ               ｉｎ               ａｎ               ａｒｍｏｒｅｄ               ｓｕｉｔ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｒｅｇｕｌａｒ               ｕｎｉｆｏｒｍ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｔｒｏｏｐｅｒ               ｉｎ               ｃａｍｏ               ｓｔｏｏｄ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｏｏｒ,               ｗｈｉｌｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｕｉｔ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ,               ｂｉｇ               ｓｔｅｅｌ               ｂｏｏｔｓ               ｃｌａｎｋｉｎｇ               ａｓ               ｈｅ               ｍａｄｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｗａｙ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ａｉｓｌｅ.

"ＩＤ,               ｖａｃｃｉｎａｔｉｏｎ               ｃｅｒｔ,               ｔｉｃｋｅｔ,"               ｈｅ               ｄｒｏｎｅｄ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｈｉｓ               ｈｅｌｍｅｔ               ｓｐｅａｋｅｒ,               ａｓ               ｈｅ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｂｙ               ｅｖｅｒｙ               ｓｅａｔ.
               Ｉ               ｈｅｌｄ               ｕｐ               ｍｙ               ｐａｐｅｒｓ.

Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｓｅｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｈｉｓ               ｄａｒｋｅｎｅｄ               ｆａｃｅｐｌａｔｅ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ａｓｓｕｍｅ               ｈｅ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｅｖｅｒｙｔｈｉｎｇ               ｗａｓ               ｏｋａｙ               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｈｅ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｐｕｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｅｒｖｏ-ａｓｓｉｓｔｅｄ               ｆｉｓｔ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｍｙ               ｆａｃｅ.

Ｇｌｅａｍｉｎｇ               ｓｔａｉｎｌｅｓｓ               ｓｔｅｅｌ               ｐｉｓｔｏｎｓ               ｐｕｍｐｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｗｈｉｎｅｄ               ａｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｉｄｅｓ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ａｒｍｏｒｅｄ               ｓｕｉｔ               ｍｉｍｉｃｋｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｍｏｔｉｏｎｓ.

"Ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ               ｈｅｒｅ,"               ｈｉｓ               ｈｅｌｍｅｔ               ｓｐｅａｋｅｒ               ｂｏｏｍｅｄ.
               Ｈｅ               ｃｌａｎｋ-ｃｌａｎｋｅｄ               ｏｆｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｐａｒｔｎｅｒ               ｒａｎ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ａｉｓｌｅ,               ｔｏｓｓｉｎｇ               ｐａｍｐｈｌｅｔｓ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｐｓ               ｏｆ               ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｓｓｅｎｇｅｒｓ.

"Ｙｏｕ               ａｒｅ               ｎｏｗ               ｉｎ               ａｎ               ａｒｅａ               ｔｈａｔ               ｉｓ               ｏｎｃｅ               ａｇａｉｎ               ｐｒｏｔｅｃｔｅｄ               ｂｙ               ｅｎｆｏｒｃｅｍｅｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｗｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｕｎｉｔｅｄ               Ｓｔａｔｅｓ,"               ｔｈｅ               ｓｏｌｄｉｅｒ               ａｎｎｏｕｎｃｅｄ               ｌｏｕｄｌｙ.

"Ｐｌｅａｓｅ               ｂｅ               ａｄｖｉｓｅｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｉｓ               ａｒｅａ               ｉｓ               ｕｎｄｅｒ               Ｌｅｖｅｌ               Ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｒｅｓｔｒｉｃｔｉｏｎｓ.

Ｔｈｉｓ               ｍｅａｎｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｙｏｕ               ａｒｅ               ｕｎｄｅｒ               ｍｉｌｉｔａｒｙ               ａｄｍｉｎｉｓｔｒａｔｉｏｎ,               ｂｕｔ               ｎｏｔ               ｆｕｌｌｙ               ｕｎｄｅｒ               ｍａｒｔｉａｌ               ｌａｗ.

Ｍａｎｙ               ｏｆ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｃｉｖｉｌｉａｎ               ｌｅｇａｌ               ｐｒｏｔｅｃｔｉｏｎｓ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ａｐｐｌｙ."
               Ｔｈｅ               ｓｏｌｄｉｅｒ               ｇｒｉｎｎｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｈｅｆｔｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｒｉｆｌｅ.

"Ｂｕｔ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｇｅｔ               ｃｏｃｋｙ,               "               ｈｅ               ａｄｄｅｄ.

Ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ               ｄｏｗｎ               ａｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｈａｎｄｈｅｌｄ,               ｈｅ               ｓｕｄｄｅｎｌｙ               ｔｕｒｎｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｓｃｒｅａｍｅｄ               ａｔ               ａ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｓｉｔｔｉｎｇ               ｎｅａｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｏｎｔ,               "Ｎｏ               ｐｈｏｎｅｓ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｙｏｕ               ｇｅｔ               ｉｎｓｉｄｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｉｔｙ!"               Ｓｈｅ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｓｔｒｉｃｋｅｎ               ａｎｄ               ｆｕｍｂｌｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｅｒ               ｃｅｌｌ.
               Ｔｈｅ               ｓｏｌｄｉｅｒ               ｇｏｔ               ｏｆｆ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｄｏｏｒ               ｓｅａｌｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｗｈｕｆｆ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｒｉｖｅｒ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｏｆｆ.

Ｉ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ａｔ               ｍｙ               ｐａｍｐｈｌｅｔ.

Ｂｉｇ               ｒｅｄ               ｌｅｔｔｅｒｓ               ｓｈｏｕｔｅｄ               "Ｔｈｅ               Ｕｎｉｔｅｄ               Ｓｔａｔｅｓ               Ｇｏｖｅｒｎｍｅｎｔ               Ｗｅｌｃｏｍｅｓ               Ｒｅｆｕｇｅｅｓ               Ｆｒｏｍ               Ｆａｓｃｉｓｍ."
               Ｔｈｅｙ               ｍｕｓｔ               ｈａｖｅ               ｇｏｔｔｅｎ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｐａｍｐｈｌｅｔｓ               ｍｉｘｅｄ               ｕｐ,               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｔｈａｔ               ｌａｓｔ               ｒｅｂｅｌ               ａｒｅａ               ｗｅ               ｃａｍｅ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｗａｓ               Ｎａｚｉ,               ａｌｔｈｏｕｇｈ               ｉｔ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               Ｃｏｎｎｉｅ-ｌａｎｄ.

Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｓｅｅ               ａｎｙ               ＳＳ               ｌｉｇｈｔｎｉｎｇ               ｂｏｌｔｓ               ｔａｇｇｅｄ               ｏｎ               ａｎｙ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｖｅｒｐａｓｓｅｓ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄ               ｓｅｅ               ｃｏｎｓｔｉｔｕｔｉｏｎａｌｉｓｔ               "Ｄｏｎ'ｔ               Ｔｒｅａｄ               Ｏｎ               Ｍｅ"               ｄｅｃａｌｓ               ｏｎ               ａ               ｃｏｕｐｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｒｕｃｋ               ｗｉｎｄｓｈｉｅｌｄｓ.

Ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ａｌｓｏ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｗｅ               ｐａｓｓｅｄ               ａ               ｃｏｕｐｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｂｕｉｌｄｉｎｇｓ               ｆｌｙｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｄ               ｂａｎｎｅｒ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｗｏｒｋｅｒｓ'               Ｍｉｌｉｔｉａ,               ｓｏ               ｗｈｏ               ｋｎｏｗｓ               ｗｈａｔ               ｃｏｌｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ａｒｅａ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｓｈｏｗ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｐｓ               ｏｎｌｉｎｅ?
               Ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｖｅｒ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｍｐｈｌｅｔ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｐｉｃｔｕｒｅ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｂｌａｎｄ-ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ               ｍａｎ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｓｕｉｔ               ａｎｄ               ｔｕｒｔｌｅｎｅｃｋ               ｗｈｏ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｒｅｃｏｇｎｉｚｅ,               ｂｕｔ               ｗｈｏ               Ｉ               ａｓｓｕｍｅ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｔｅｓｔ               "Ｐｒｅｓｉｄｅｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｕｎｉｔｅｄ               Ｓｔａｔｅｓ."               Ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｏｐｅｎｅｄ               ｉｔ,               ａｎ               ＬＥＤ-ｌｉｔ               ｌｉｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｐｒｏｈｉｂｉｔｅｄ               ｉｔｅｍｓ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ｓｔｒｏｂｉｎｇ               ａｎｄ               ａ               ｃｈｉｐ               ｐｌａｙｅｄ               ａ               ｔｉｎｎｙ               ｒｅｃｏｒｄｉｎｇ               ｏｆ               "Ｔｈｅ               Ｓｔａｒ               Ｓｐａｎｇｌｅｄ               Ｂａｎｎｅｒ."               Ｉｔ               ｍａｄｅ               ａ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｓａｔｉｓｆｙｉｎｇ               ｓｑｕｅａｌ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｃｒｕｍｐｌｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｍｐｈｌｅｔ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｈａｎｄ.

Ｉ               ｈｅａｒｄ               ａ               ｓｉｍｉｌａｒ               ｎｏｉｓｅ               ｕｐ               ａｎｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ａｉｓｌｅ,               ｅｃｈｏｉｎｇ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｏｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｃｃｕｐｉｅｄ               ｓｅａｔｓ.
               Ｗｈｅｎ               ｗｅ               ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ               ｐｕｌｌｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               Ｍｏｄｅｓｔｏ               ｂｕｓ               ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｓｅｖｅｎ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｖｅｎｉｎｇ.

Ｉｔ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               19               ｈｏｕｒｓ               ｓｉｎｃｅ               ｗｅ               ｌｅｆｔ               Ｓａｎ               Ｆｒａｎｃｉｓｃｏ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｋｙ               ｗａｓ               ｓｔａｒｔｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｄａｒｋｅｎ.

Ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｆｏｏｄ               ｂａｒｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｇｏｎｅ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｎｏ               ｗａｔｅｒ               ｌｅｆｔ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｈｏｔ               ｄｏｇ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ               ｗａｓ               ｅｘｐｅｎｓｉｖｅ,               ｂｕｔ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｈｅａｐｅｓｔ               ｔｈｉｎｇ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｅｎｕ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏ               ｗａｙ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｍｏｏｃｈ               ｏｆｆ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ.

Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏ               ｍｕｓｔａｒｄ               ｏｒ               ｋｅｔｃｈｕｐ.

Ｉ               ｈａｖｅ               ｎｏ               ｃｌｕｅ               ｗｈａｔ               ａｎｉｍａｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｅａｔ               ｃａｍｅ               ｆｒｏｍ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｎ               ｗａｓ               ｓｔａｌｅ               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏ               ｍｏｌｄ               ｏｎ               ｉｔ.

Ａ               ｂｏｔｔｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｗａｔｅｒ               ｃｏｓｔ               ｍｅ               ｌｅｓｓ               ｔｈａｎ               ｍｙ               ｂｕｓ               ｔｉｃｋｅｔ,               ｂｕｔ               ｎｏｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｌｅｓｓ.
               Ａｆｔｅｒ               Ｉ               ｇｏｔ               ｏｕｔｓｉｄｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｅｃｕｒｉｔｙ               ａｒｅａ,               Ｉ               ｌｉｔ               ｕｐ               ｍｙ               ｐｈｏｎｅ               ａｎｄ               ｇｏｔ               ａ               ｍａｐ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ'ｓ               ｈｏｕｓｅ.

Ｈｅ               ｌｉｖｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｓａｍｅ               ｄｉｓｔｒｉｃｔ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ,               ｂｕｔ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               ｉｔ.

Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ａｎ               ｈｏｕｒ'ｓ               ｈｉｋｅ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｒｅｅｔｓ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｑｕｉｅｔ,               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｂｕｔ               ｎｏｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｂｕｓｙ               ｏｎ               ｗｈａｔ               ｗａｓ,               ａｆｔｅｒ               ａｌｌ,               ａ               Ｓｕｎｄａｙ               ｎｉｇｈｔ.

Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｎｏ               ｔｒｏｏｐｓ,               ｊｕｓｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｃｃａｓｉｏｎａｌ               ｄｒｏｎｅ               ｈｏｖｅｒｉｎｇ               ｏｖｅｒ               ａｎ               ｉｎｔｅｒｓｅｃｔｉｏｎ.

Ｉ               ｅｖｅｎ               ｓａｗ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｒｅｇｕｌａｒ               ｃｏｐｓ,               ｉｎ               ｂｌｕｅｓ.

Ｓｔｏｒｅｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｏｐｅｎ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｎｏ               ｌｉｎｅｓ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｒｅｌｉｅｖｅｄ.

Ａ               ｌｏｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｏｒｅｓ               ｈａｄ               ｂａｎｋ               ｌｏｇｏ               ｓｉｇｎｓ               ｂｌｉｎｋｉｎｇ,               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｍｙ               ｍｏｎｅｙ               ｃａｒｄｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｇｏｏｄ.

Ｉ'ｍ               ｇｌａｄ               Ｉ               ｇｏｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｐ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｅｇｉｎｎｉｎｇ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｗａｌｋ.

Ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｂｌｏｃｋｓ               ａｗａｙ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｙ               ｕｎｃｌｅ'ｓ               ｈｏｕｓｅ,               ｍｙ               ｐｈｏｎｅ               ｗａｓ               ｂｉｎｇ-ｂｉｎｇ-ｂｉｎｇｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｉｇｎａｌ               ｙｏｕ               ｇｅｔ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｔｈｅｙ'ｖｅ               ｓｗｉｔｃｈｅｄ               ｏｆｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｔｗｏｒｋｓ.

Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｌｙ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｏｒｅｄ               ｍａｐ.

Ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｇｏｔ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｕｎｃｌｅ'ｓ               ｈｏｕｓｅ,               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｅｉｇｈｔ               ｃａｒｓ               ｐａｒｋｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｌａｗｎ.

Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｄａｒｋ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｉｇｈｔｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｏｎ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｓｏｕｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｖｏｉｃｅｓ,               ｔｈａｔ               ｍａｎｉｃ,               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｐａｒｔｙ-ｌｉｋｅ               ｂａｃｋｇｒｏｕｎｄ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｗａｋｅ,               ｗｉｔｈ               ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ               ｆｒａｎｔｉｃａｌｌｙ               ｔｈｉｎｋｉｎｇ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｅｌｓｅ,               ｓｐｉｌｌｅｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｐｅｎ               ｗｉｎｄｏｗｓ.
               Ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ               ａｎｓｗｅｒｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｏｏｒ               ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ.

Ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｓｉｘ               ｆｏｏｔ               ｓｅｖｅｎ,               ａｎｄ               ｈａｄ               ａ               ｓｈａｇｇｙ               ｆｒｉｎｇｅ               ｏｆ               ｗｈｉｔｅ               ｈａｉｒ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒｓ,               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｇｌｅａｍｉｎｇ               ｂａｌｄ               ｐａｔｅ.

Ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ               ｗｅｉｇｈｅｄ               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｈｕｎｄｒｅｄ               ｐｏｕｎｄｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｅｖｅｒｙ               ｐｏｕｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｍ               ｗａｓ               ｓｔｏｎｅ               ｃｏｌｄ               ｄｒｕｎｋ.

Ｈｅ               ｂｌｕｂｂｅｒｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｈｕｇｇｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｏｏｒｓｔｅｐ,               ｐｒａｃｔｉｃａｌｌｙ               ｌｉｆｔｉｎｇ               ｍｅ               ｏｆｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｒｏｕｎｄ.

"Ａｗｗｗ,               Ｓｔａｎ!

Ｓｔａｎ,               Ｓｔａｎ.

Ｉ'ｍ               ｇｌａｄ               ｙｏｕ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｍａｋｅ               ｉｔ.

Ａｗ,               Ｓｔａｎ!

Ｍｙ               ｂａｂｙ               ｂｒｏｔｈｅｒ'ｓ               ｄｅａｄ!"               Ｉ               ａｓｓｕｒｅｄ               ｈｉｍ               ｔｈａｔ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｅｃｅａｓｅｄ'ｓ               ｓｏｎ,               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｗｅｌｌ               ａｗａｒｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｒａｖｉｔｙ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｉｔｕａｔｉｏｎ,               ａｎｄ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｒｏｗｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｏｕｓｅ.

Ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｈｅ               ｂｅ               ａｂｌｅ               ｔｏ               ｇｉｖｅ               ｍｅ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｃｏｕｃｈ               ｓｐａｃｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｉｇｈｔ?
               Ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｇｒａｖｅ.

"Ｔｈｅｙ'ｒｅ               ａｌｌ               ｂｕｄｄｉｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｍｉｎｅ,               ｃｏｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｈｅｌｐ               ｍｅ               ｇｅｔ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｍｙ               ｈｏｒｒｉｂｌｅ               ｌｏｓｓ."               Ｈｅ               ｓｃｒａｔｃｈｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｈｅａｄ.

"Ｗｅ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｄｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｆｏｕｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ               ｇｏｔ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｃｌａｉｍ               ｉｎ               ａｌｒｅａｄｙ."
               "Ｗｈａｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               Ｄａｄ'ｓ               ｓｐａｃｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｓｅｍｅｎｔ?"               Ｉ               ａｓｋｅｄ.

Ｂｉｌｌ               ｓｈｏｏｋ               ｈｉｓ               ｈｅａｄ.

"Ｒｅｎｔｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ａｌｒｅａｄｙ."               Ｈｏｏｋｉｎｇ               ａ               ｔｈｕｍｂ               ａｔ               ｍｙ               ｂａｃｋ               ｐａｃｋ,               ｈｅ               ａｄｄｅｄ,               "Ｙｏｕ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｌａｙ               ｄｏｗｎ               ａ               ｂｅｄｒｏｌｌ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｌｌｗａｙ,               ｉｆ               ｙｏｕ               ｌｉｋｅ."
               Ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ               ａｌｗａｙｓ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｓｏｍｅｗｈａｔ               ｓｅｌｆ               ａｂｓｏｒｂｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｈｅ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｗａｓ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｒｍ               ａｎｄ               ｆｕｚｚｙ               (ｕｎｌｅｓｓ               ｉｔ               ｓｕｉｔｅｄ               ｈｉｍ).

"Ｗｈａｔ               ｄｉｄ               Ｄａｄ               ｌｅａｖｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｅ?"               Ｉ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｈｉｍ.

Ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ａ               ｍｏｍｅｎｔ.

"Ｗａｉｔ               ｈｅｒｅ,"               ｈｅ               ｓａｉｄ.

Ｈｅ               ｅｌｂｏｗｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｗａｙ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｒｏｗｄ               ｏｆ               ａｎｏｎｙｍｏｕｓ               ｄｒｕｎｋｓ.
Ｈｅ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｃｏｍｐｕｔｅｒ               ｍｅｍｏｒｙ               ｃｒｙｓｔａｌ.

"Ｈｅｒｅ,"               ｈｅ               ｓａｉｄ.

"ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ               ａ               ｆｉｌｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｎａｍｅ               ｏｎ               ｉｔ.

Ｉｔ'ｓ               ｌｏｃｋｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｓｅｃｕｒｉｔｙ.

Ｙｏｕ               ｇｅｔ               ｏｎｅ               ｖｉｅｗ,               ａｎｄ               ｏｎｅ               ｐｒｉｎｔｏｕｔ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｉｔ               ｅｒａｓｅｓ,               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｓａｖｅｄ               ｉｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｙｏｕ."               Ｉ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｉｔ               ｇｉｎｇｅｒｌｙ.

"Ｂｉｌｌ!

Ｗｈｅｒｅ'ｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｃｅ?"               ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ               ｙｅｌｌｅｄ.

Ｈｅ               ｃｌａｐｐｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｄｉｖｅｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｒｏｗｄ.

Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｓｔ               Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ｈｉｍ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               Ｍｏｎｄａｙ               ｍｏｒｎｉｎｇ.

Ｍｙ               ｐｈｏｎｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｒｅａｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｌｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｔｗｏｒｋ               ｗａｓ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｄｏｗｎ,               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｄｏｗｎｌｏａｄ               ａ               ｎｅｗ               ｐｌａｙｅｒ               ｏｒ               ｒｅａｄｅｒ.

Ｏｈ,               ｗｅｌｌ.

Ｉ'ｄ               ｌｏｏｋ               ｉｔ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｗａｙ               ｈｏｍｅ.
               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ａ               ｄｒｉｎｋ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｄｒｕｎｋ               ｗｏｍａｎ,               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｆｏｒｔｙ-ｆｉｖｅ               ｂｕｔ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｌｏｏｋｉｎ'               ｆｉｎｅ.

Ｂｕｔ               ｓｈｅ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｄｒｕｎｋ,               ｓｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｈｉｃｃｕｐ/ｖｏｍｉｔｉｎｇ               ｄｒｕｎｋ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｎｏ               ｉｎｔｅｎｔｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ｄｏｉｎｇ               ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｔｈａｎ               ｈａｖｉｎｇ               ａ               ｄｒｉｎｋ.
               Ｗｈｅｎ               ｓｈｅ               ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔｏｏｄ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｍｅａｎｔ               ｉｔ               ａｎｄ               ｗａｎｄｅｒｅｄ               ｏｆｆ               ｉｎ               ｓｅａｒｃｈ               ｏｆ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｐｒｅｙ,               Ｉ               ｕｎｒｏｌｌｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｉｎｆｌａｔａｂｌｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｌｌｗａｙ,               ｐｕｔ               ｉｎ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｅａｒｐｌｕｇｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｌａｙ               ｄｏｗｎ.
               Ｉ               ａｗｏｋｅ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｐｕｄｄｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｓｕｎｓｈｉｎｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｐｉｌｌｅｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ａ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｗｉｎｄｏｗ.

Ｎｅａｒｂｙ,               ｔｈｅ               ｄｒｕｎｋｅｎ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｌａｓｔ               ｎｉｇｈｔ               ｓｎｏｒｅｄ               ｌｏｕｄｌｙ,               ｃｕｒｌｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｉｎ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｔｈｒｏｏｍ               ｄｏｏｒ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｌｌ.

Ｉ               ｐａｃｋｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｍｙ               ｓｔｕｆｆ               ａｎｄ               ｔｉｐｔｏｅｄ               ｐａｓｔ               ｈｅｒ,               ｒｅｌｉｅｖｅｄ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ,               ｄｒａｎｋ               ａｓ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｗａｔｅｒ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｈｏｌｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｏｕｔ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｋｉｔｃｈｅｎ.
               Ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ               ｗａｓ               ｓｉｔｔｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｋｉｔｃｈｅｎ               ｉｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｈｉｒｔ,               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｄｒｕｎｋ,               ａｎｄ               ａｒｇｕｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｍａｎ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｓｕｉｔ,               ｗｈｏ,               ａｐｐａｒｅｎｔｌｙ,               ｗａｓ               ｓｕｐｐｏｓｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｎｄｕｃｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｅｒｖｉｃｅ               ｆｏｒ               Ｄａｄ.

"Ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｗｏｎ'ｔ               ｄｏ               ｉｔ               ｕｎｌｅｓｓ               ｙｏｕ               ｐａｙ               ｉｎ               ａｄｖａｎｃｅ,"               ｈｅ               ｔｏｌｄ               Ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ.

Ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｈｅｌｐｌｅｓｓｌｙ               ａｔ               ｍｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｐｕｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｈａｎｄ               ｏｎ               ａ               ｓｈｉｎｙ               ｓｔｅｅｌ               ｃｙｌｉｎｄｅｒ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｔａｂｌｅ,               ｐｒｅｓｕｍａｂｌｙ               Ｄａｄ'ｓ               ａｓｈｅｓ.

"Ｄｏ               ｙｏｕ               ｈａｖｅ               ａｎｙ               ｍｏｎｅｙ?"               ｈｅ               ａｓｋｅｄ.

               Ｔｈｅ               ｃｙｌｉｎｄｅｒ               ｗａｓ               ｅｍｂｌａｚｏｎｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               Ｈｅａｌｔｈ               Ｄｉｒｅｃｔｏｒａｔｅ               ｌｏｇｏ.

Ｉ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ａｔ               Ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ.

"Ｙｏｕ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｔｅｌｌ               ｍｅ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               Ｆｌｕ."               Ｈｅ               ｓｈｒｕｇｇｅｄ.

"Ｔｈｅ               ｃａｎｃｅｒ               ｄｒｕｇｓ               ｍａｄｅ               ｈｉｍ               ｗｅａｋ.

Ｈｅ               ｇｏｔ               ｉｔ,               ａｎｄ               ｌｏｃｋｅｄ               ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ               ｉｎ               ｄｏｗｎｓｔａｉｒｓ               ｔｏ               ｈｏｐｅ               ａｎｄ               ｇｅｔ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｉｔ.

Ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｍｅ               ａｎｙｏｎｅ               ｎｏｔｉｃｅｄ,               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｇｏｎｅ."

               Ｈｅ               ｌｏｃｋｅｄ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｅ.

"Ｓｏ               ｙｏｕ               ｇｏｔ               ａｎｙ               ｍｏｎｅｙ               ｔｏ               ｐａｙ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｓｅｒｖｉｃｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｏｌｄ               ｍａｎ?"

               Ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｗｏ               ｏｆ               ｕｓ               ｗｅ               ｃａｍｅ               ｕｐ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｎ               ｔｏ               ｓａｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｄｓ,               ａｌｔｈｏｕｇｈ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｒｏｗ               ｉｎ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｐａｃｋｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｏｂａｃｃｏ,               ｉｎ               ａｄｄｉｔｉｏｎ               ｔｏ               ａ               ｌｏｔ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｃａｓｈ               ｐｌｕｓ               ａ               ｃｏｕｐｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｃａｒｄｓ.

               Ｗｅ               ｓｔｏｏｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ｙａｒｄ,               ｈｅａｄｓ               ｂｏｗｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｎ               ｒｅｃｉｔｅｄ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｆｒｏｍ               ａ               ｏｌｄ               ｂｏｏｋ               ｏｆ               ｐｏｅｔｒｙ.

Ｉｔ               ｈａｄ               ａ               ｌｏｔ               ｏｆ               "ｔｈｅｅｓ"               ａｎｄ               "ｔｈｏｕｓ"               ａｎｄ               ｓａｉｄ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ａ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ｗｏｒｌｄ.

Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｉｄｅａｌｉｓｔｉｃ,               ａｎｄ               ａ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｓｉｌｌｙ.

Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               Ｄａｄ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｌｉｋｅｄ               ｉｔ.

Ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ               ｄａｓｈｅｄ               ａｗａｙ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｎｄ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｔｃｈ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ａ               ｂｕｓｈ.
               Ｔｈｅ               ｐｒｅａｃｈｅｒ               ｏｐｅｎｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｙｌｉｎｄｅｒ,               ｓｐｒｉｎｋｌｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ａｓｈｅｓ               ｏｎ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｂｕｓｈｅｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈａｔ.
               Ｕｎｃｌｅ               Ｂｉｌｌ               ｔｒｉｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｇｅｔ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｍｏｎｅｙ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｅ,               ｂｕｔ               ａｌｌ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｆａｒｅ               ｈｏｍｅ,               ｐｌｕｓ               ｍａｙｂｅ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｃｏｕｐｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｈｏｔ               ｄｏｇｓ               ａｎｄ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｗａｔｅｒ.

Ｈｅ               ｇｏｔ               ｍａｄ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｈｉｍ               ｔｈａｔ,               ｂｕｔ               ｈｅ               ａｃｃｅｐｔｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｂｏｔｔｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｌｉｑｕｏｒ               ａｎｄ               ｓｔｏｍｐｅｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｏｕｓｅ,               ｓｌａｍｍｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｏｏｒ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｈｉｍ.
               Ｉ               ｈｏｉｓｔｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｂａｃｋｐａｃｋ,               ａｎｄ               ｈｅａｄｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ.

Ｉｔ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｗａｙ               ｌｅｓｓ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｔｈａｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｏｕｒ               ｗａｌｋ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｄｉｒｅｃｔｉｏｎ,               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｙ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ.

Ｍｙ               ｈｅａｒｔ               ｗａｓ               ｅｍｐｔｙ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｍａｒｃｈ               ａｌｏｎｇ.

Ａ               ｄｒｏｎｅ               ｆｏｌｌｏｗｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｂｌｏｃｋ               ｏｒ               ｔｗｏ,               ｈｕｍｍｉｎｇ               ｍａｙｂｅ               ｓｉｘｔｙ               ｆｅｅｔ               ａｂｏｖｅ               ｍｅ,               ｃａｍｅｒａｓ               ｗｈｉｎｉｎｇ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｇｕｅｓｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｐ               ｓｉｔｔｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ａｎ               ｏｆｆｉｃｅ               ｓｏｍｅｗｈｅｒｅ               ｇｏｔ               ｂｏｒｅｄ               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｉｔ               ｐｅｅｌｅｄ               ｏｆｆ               ａｎｄ               ｈｅａｄｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ａ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｓｔｒｅｅｔ.

               Ａｓ               Ｉ               ｗａｉｔｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｌｉｎｅ               ｔｏ               ｓｈｏｗ               ｍｙ               ＩＤ               ａｎｄ               ｖａｃｃｉｎａｔｉｏｎ               ｃｅｒｔｉｆｉｃａｔｅ               ｔｏ               Ｓｅｃｕｒｉｔｙ               ｓｏ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ａｐｐｒｏｖｅ               ｍｙ               ｔｉｃｋｅｔ,               ｍｙ               ｐｈｏｎｅ               ｂｅｅｐｅｄ.

Ａｈ!

Ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｔｗｏｒｋｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ｕｐ!

Ｉ               ｓｅｔ               ｕｐ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｏｗｎｌｏａｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｗ               ｒｅａｄｅｒ.
               Ａｆｔｅｒ               Ｉ               ｇｏｔ               ｍｙ               ｔｉｃｋｅｔ               ｓｔａｍｐｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｅｎｔ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ａ               ｓｅｃｕｒｉｔｙ               ｇｒｉｄ               (ｍｙ               ｎｅｒｖｅｓ               ｊａｎｇｌｅｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｉｎ               Ｓａｎ               Ｆｒａｎｃｉｓｃｏ,               ｂｕｔ               ｏｎｃｅ               ａｇａｉｎ,               Ｎｉｃｋ'ｓ               ｓｃａｎｎｅｒ               ｂｌｉｎｄｅｒ               ｃｏｖｅｒｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｂｕｔｔ),               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ａ               ｈｏｔ               ｄｏｇ               ａｎｄ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｗａｔｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｓａｔ               ｏｎ               ａ               ｂｅｎｃｈ               ｗａｉｔｉｎｇ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｇａｔｅ.
               Ｍｙ               ｐｈｏｎｅ               ｒａｎｇ.

Ｍｙ               ｒｅａｄｅｒ               ｗａｓ               ｒｅａｄｙ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｌｅ               ｗａｓ               ｔｅｘｔ,               ｖｅｒｙ               ｏｌｄ,               ｗｒｉｔｔｅｎ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｗｏｒｄ               ｐｒｏｃｅｓｓｉｎｇ               ｐｒｏｇｒａｍ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓ               ｏｂｓｏｌｅｔｅ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｂｏｒｎ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｒｉｔｅ               ｄａｔｅ               ｗａｓ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｗｏ               ｍｏｎｔｈｓ               ａｇｏ.

Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ａｕｔｈｏｒｉｚｅ               ａ               ｃｈａｒｇｅ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｐｈｏｎｅ               ａｃｃｏｕｎｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅａｄｅｒ.

Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｈｉｇｈ,               ａｎｄ               ｉｔ               ｈｕｒｔ               ａ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ,               ｔｈｅ               ｆｏｌｌｏｗｉｎｇ               ｍｏｎｔｈ.
               Ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｌｅ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｌｅｔｔｅｒ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｙ               ｆａｔｈｅｒ.
               "Ｉ'ｍ               ｓｏｒｒｙ,               Ｓｔａｎ,               "               ｈｅ               ｗｒｏｔｅ.

"Ｍｙ               ｇｅｎｅｒａｔｉｏｎ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｙｏｕｒｓ               ａ               ｈｅｌｌ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｍｅｓｓ.

Ｗｅ               ｕｓｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｓｏ               ｐｒｏｕｄ,               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｈｅｒｅ."
               "Ｗｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｍｅｃｈａｎｉｃｓ               ａｎｄ               ｂｕｉｌｄｅｒｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ｗｅ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｍａｋｅ               ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ               ａｎｙ               ｍｏｒｅ.

Ｗｅ               ｕｓｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｇｒｏｗ               ｔｈｉｎｇｓ.

Ｎｏｔ               ａｎｙ               ｍｏｒｅ.

Ｗｅ               ｕｓｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｉｎｖｅｎｔ               ｓｔｕｆｆ."

               "Ｗｅ               ｔｒａｖｅｌｅｄ               ａｓ               ｗｅ               ｌｉｋｅｄ,               ｗｅ               ａｔｅ               ｗｈａｔ               ｗｅ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ,               ｗｅ               ｔａｌｋｅｄ               ａｓ               ｗｅ               ｐｌｅａｓｅｄ.

Ｂｕｔ               ｗｅ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｍａｋｉｎｇ               ｔｈｉｎｇｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｓｈｉｐｐｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｉｎｇｓ               ｍａｄｅ               ｂｙ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｏｖｅｒｓｅａｓ,               ｈｏｌｄｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅｍ               ａｔ               ｇｕｎｐｏｉｎｔ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｅ               ｍａｋｅ               ａｌｌ               ｏｕｒ               ｍｏｎｅｙ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｔｒａｄｉｎｇ               ｐａｐｅｒ               ｂａｃｋ               ａｎｄ               ｆｏｒｔｈ."
               Ｄａｄ               ｗａｓ               ｓｕｃｈ               ａｎ               ｉｄｅａｌｉｓｔ.

"Ｗｅ'ｒｅ               ｎｏｔ               ｆｒｅｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｕｎｔｒｙ               ｉｓ               ｇｏｎｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｌｄ               ｉｓ               ｐｏｌｌｕｔｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｅ'ｒｅ               ｂａｋｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｅａｔ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｗａｔｅｒ'ｓ               ｒｉｓｉｎｇ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈａｔ'ｓ               ｗｈａｔ               ｗｅ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｙｏｕ.

Ａｎｄ               ｗｅ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｃａｒｅ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｅａｃｈ               ｏｔｈｅｒｓ               ｄｒｅａｍｓ               ａｎｙ               ｍｏｒｅ."
               "Ｉ'ｍ               ｓｏ               ｓｏｒｒｙ,               ｍｙ               ｂｅｌｏｖｅｄ               ｓｏｎ.

Ｍｙ               ｂｅｓｔ               ｔｏ               ｙｏｕ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｗｏｎｄｅｒｆｕｌ               ｌｉｆｅ               ａｆｔｅｒ               Ｉ               ａｍ               ｇｏｎｅ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｄｏ               ｎｏｔ               ｅｎｖｙ               ｙｏｕ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｗｏｒｌｄ.

Ｌｏｖｅ,               Ｄａｄ."
               Ｗｈａｔ               ａ               ｓｉｌｌｙ               ｌｅｔｔｅｒ.
               "Ｔｈｅ               ｗａｔｅｒ'ｓ               ｒｉｓｉｎｇ"?

Ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｈｅ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ａ               ｓｌｏｗｄｏｗｎ               ｉｎ               ｉｃｅｃａｐ               ｍｅｌｔｉｎｇ?

Ｔｈｅ               ｗａｔｅｒ               ｈａｄｎ'ｔ               ｒｉｓｅｎ               ａｐｐｒｅｃｉａｂｌｙ               ｓｉｎｃｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｗｏ-ｍｅｔｅｒ               ｓｕｒｇｅ.

Ｉｆ               ｉｔ               ｈａｄｎ'ｔ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               Ｑｕａｋｅ,               Ｓａｎ               Ｆｒａｎｃｉｓｃｏ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｂｅ               ａ               ｐｅｎｉｎｓｕｌａ               ａｎｄ               ｎｏｔ               ａｎ               ｉｓｌａｎｄ.

Ｓｕｒｅ,               ｔｈｉｎｇｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ａ               ｍｅｓｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅｙ'ｄ               ｓｌｏｗｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｓｏｍｅ.
               Ｄａｄ               ｗａｓ               ｓｕｃｈ               ａ               ｓｅｎｔｉｍｅｎｔａｌ               ｏｌｄ               ｆｏｏｌ.

Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ａｌｌ               ｍｙ               ｐａｐｅｒｓ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｔｒａｖｅｌ.

Ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ａｔｅ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ.

Ｉ'ｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｈａｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈｏｔ               ｄｏｇ,               ｍｙ               ｓｅｃｏｎｄ               ｍｅａｌ               ｉｎ               ｔｗｏ               ｄａｙｓ               ｎｏｔ               ｉｎｃｌｕｄｉｎｇ               ｆｏｏｄ               ｂａｒｓ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｄｏｉｎｇ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ｕｓｕａｌ.

Ａｎｄ               ｃｅｒｔａｉｎｌｙ,               Ｉ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｔｏ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ,               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｕｎｔｒｙ               ｗａｓ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｈｅｒｅ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｍａｎ               ｗｈｏ               ａｐｐｒｏｖｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｔｉｃｋｅｔ               ａｔ               Ｓｅｃｕｒｉｔｙ               ｈａｄ               ａ               Ｓｔａｒｓ               ａｎｄ               Ｓｔｒｉｐｅｓ               ｐａｔｃｈ               ｏｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ.

Ｓｏ               ｄｉｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｗａｔｃｈｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｒｉｄ.

Ｗｈａｔ               ａ               ｐｉｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｃｒａｐ.
               Ｉ               ｓｈｏｗｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｐａｐｅｒｓ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｏｌｄｉｅｒ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ａｒｍｏｒｅｄ               ｓｕｉｔ,               ａｎｄ               ｃｌｉｍｂｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｂｏａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｒｉｐ               ｈｏｍｅ.
               Ｉ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｗｈｙ               Ｉ               ｂｏｔｈｅｒｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｇｏ.

Ｉ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｄｉｄ               ｇｅｔ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｔｏ               ｍａｋｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               ｏｎｅ               ｐｒｉｎｔｏｕｔ               Ｄａｄ'ｓ               ｆｉｌｅ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ａｌｌｏｗ               ｍｅ.

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Adrianne Cerezo's blog

2013년 11월 23일 토요일

About 'family health care modesto'|October 5 2009: States of disbelief

About 'family health care modesto'|October 5 2009: States of disbelief

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