It was a rainy Tuesday morning just after opening and I was in the lobby of the First National Bank shooting the breeze with Bill, the bank security guard. Bill’s a retired mail carrier doing the rent-a-cop shtick to keep busy and to supplement his retirement income. A rather scruffy looking character came in and took a quick panoramic look-see of the bank’s lobby. Spotting the two of us, he walked over and just like that, handed me a small pistol.

“You don’t really have a choice,” the nurse explained.

The timbre of her tapping foot echoed within the confined walls of the hospital’s modest room. I noticed a very large scar stretching across her left knuckles.

“You mean I have to sign it?”

He found the North Star. At least he thought it was the North Star, since it seemed to be the brightest, but when he turned the N on the compass in that direction to test himself, the arrow pointed the other way. Moving the compass around, he found that the lit up area must be West Philly, he thought, proud of himself for figuring it out. He tried to find their house. His dad had turned the living room light on before they left, so he figured one of the dots was theirs.