About 'fort lauderdale universities'|Psychiatrist Fort Lauderdale

About 'fort lauderdale universities'|Psychiatrist Fort Lauderdale

ＲＡＬＥＩＧＨ,               Ｎｏｒｔｈ               Ｃａｒｏｌｉｎａ               -               Ｔｏｍ               Ｍｅｎｄｅｌｓｏｎ               ｓｉｇｈｅｄ,               ｐｕｔ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｕｎｗｅｌｃｏｍｅ               ｌｅｔｔｅｒ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｃａｓｔｉｎｅ,               Ｍａｉｎｅ               ａｎｄ               ｇｒａｂｂｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｂａｓｅｂａｌｌ               ｇｌｏｖｅ. Ｈｅ               ｔｈｅｎ               ａｍｂｌｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｏｏｒ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｏｎｅ-ｂｅｄｒｏｏｍ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ. Ｈｉｓ               ｔｉｎｙ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ               ｗａｓ               ｌｏｃａｔｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｉｃｋｓ               ｏｆｆ               ｏｆ               Ｃａｐｉｔｏｌ               Ｂｏｕｌｅｖａｒｄ               ｉｎ               ｎｏｒｔｈ               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ:               ａｓ               ｉｎ,               Ｎｏｒｔｈ               Ｃａｒｏｌｉｎａ,               ｏｆ               ａｌｌ               ｐｌａｃｅｓ!                Ｉｔ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｓｏ               ｓｕｒｒｅａｌ               ａｔ               ｔｉｍｅｓ. Ｈｅｒｅ               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ,               ｗｏｒｋｉｎｇ               ａｓ               ａｎ               ｅｌｅｃｔｒｉｃ               ｐａｌｌｅｔ               ｊａｃｋ               ｏｐｅｒａｔｏｒ-ｓｌａｓｈ-ｗａｒｅｈｏｕｓｅ               ｒｅｃｅｉｖｉｎｇ               ｃｌｅｒｋ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｃｏｍｐｕｔｅｒ               ｂｏａｒｄ               ｍａｎｕｆａｃｔｕｒｅｒ               -               ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ               ｂｅｎｅｆｉｔｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ｐａｉｄ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ａ               ｔｅｍｐｏｒａｒｙ               ｅｍｐｌｏｙｍｅｎｔ               ａｇｅｎｃｙ. Ｆｏｒ               $7.50/ｈｏｕｒ!                Ｉｆ               Ｔｏｍ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｓａｗ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｄｅｌｔａ               Ａｉｒｌｉｎｅｓ               ｔｉｃｋｅｔ               ａｇｅｎｔ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｒｕｎ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｉｎ               ｓｏｕｔｈｅｒｎ               Ｍａｉｎｅ               -               ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｅ               ｗｈｏ'ｄ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｈｉｍ               ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ               ｂｌｉｎｋｉｎｇ               ａｎ               ｅｙｅ               ｔｈａｔ,               ｈａｎｄｓ-ｄｏｗｎ,               ｔｈｅ               ｓｉｎｇｌｅ               ｂｅｓｔ               Ｅａｓｔ               Ｃｏａｓｔ               ｌｏｃａｔｉｏｎ               ｆｏｒ               ｊｏｂｓ               (ｐａｒｔｉｃｕｌａｒｌｙ               ｆｏｒ               "ｏｌｄｅｒ"               ｗｏｒｋｅｒｓ,               ｌｉｋｅ               Ｔｏｍ)               ｗａｓ               ｉｎ               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ-Ｄｕｒｈａｍ,               Ｎｏｒｔｈ               Ｃａｒｏｌｉｎａ               (ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｔｕｒｎｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｔｗｏ               ｔｏｔａｌｌｙ               ｓｅｐａｒａｔｅ               ａｎｄ               ｕｎｒｅｌａｔｅｄ               ｃｉｔｉｅｓ,               ｍｏｒｅ               ｔｈａｎ               15               ｍｉｌｅｓ               ａｐａｒｔ…)               -               …ｉｆ               Ｔｏｍ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｒａｎ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈａｔ               ｇｕｙ               ａｇａｉｎ,               ｗｅｌｌ:               Ｈｅ'ｄ               ｓａｙ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｆｏｕｌ.                                Ｉｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ               ｗａｓ               ｓｕｃｈ               ａ               ｂａｄ               ｐｌａｃｅ,               ｐｅｒ               ｓｅ               (ｅｖｅｎ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｈａｒｄｌｙ               ａ               ｍｅｃｃａ               ｆｏｒ               ｐｒｏ               ｓｐｏｒｔｓ               ｏｒ               ｅｎｔｅｒｔａｉｎｍｅｎｔ;               ｂｕｔ,               ｔｈｅｎ,               ｎｅｉｔｈｅｒ               ｗａｓ               Ｍａｉｎｅ). Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｉｔ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｓｏ               ｆｏｒｅｉｇｎ.                Ｆｏｒ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｒｓ,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｃｏｍｐｌｅｔｅｌｙ               ｌａｎｄｌｏｃｋｅｄ,               ｅｘｃｅｐｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｌａｋｅｓ               ａｓ               ｙｏｕ               ｈｅａｄｅｄ               ｆｕｒｔｈｅｒ               ｎｏｒｔｈ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               Ｖｉｒｇｉｎｉａ               ｓｔａｔｅ               ｌｉｎｅ;               ａｎｄ               Ｔｏｍ               ｗａｓ               ａｎ               ｏｃｅａｎｓ               ｋｉｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｇｕｙ. Ｓｅｃｏｎｄｌｙ,               ｔｈｅ               ａｃｃｅｎｔｓ               -               ｔｈｅ               ｎａｓａｌ               ｔｗａｎｇ:               ｔｈｅ               "Ｔｈａｎｋ               ｙｏｏ!'ｓ"               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｃａｓｈ               ｒｅｇｉｓｔｅｒ               ｇｉｒｌｓ               ａｌｗａｙｓ               ｓａｉｄ               ｔｏ               ｙｏｕ               ａｓ               ｙｏｕ               ｗａｌｋｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｏｏｒ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｅｓｔａｂｌｉｓｈｍｅｎｔｓ               -               ｍａｄｅ               ｈｉｍ               ｅｉｔｈｅｒ               ｌａｕｇｈ               ｏｒ               ｃｒｉｎｇｅ,               ｄｅｐｅｎｄｉｎｇ               ｏｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｍｏｏｄ. Ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｏｒｅｂｏｄｉｎｇ               ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｃｅｓ               ｉｎ               ｐｏｌｉｔｉｃｓ               …               ａｔ               ｌｅａｓｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｔｏｍ               ｗａｓ               ｕｓｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｉｎ               Ｓｏｕｔｈ               Ｆｌｏｒｉｄａ               ａｎｄ               Ｍａｉｎｅ. Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ,               ｗｏｒｄ               ｈａｄ               ｉｔ,               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｓｔ               ｏｐｅｎｌｙ               ｌｉｂｅｒａｌ               ｃｉｔｙ               ｉｎ               Ｎｏｒｔｈ               Ｃａｒｏｌｉｎａ,               ｉｆ               ｏｎｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ               ｔｈａｔ;               ｙｅｔ               "ｌｉｂｅｒａｌ"               ｏｒ               ｎｏｔ,               ｈｅ               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｌｉｔｉｃｓ               ｉｎ               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ               ｖｅｒｙ               Ｓｏｕｔｈｅｒｎ               Ｂａｐｔｉｓｔ,               ｖｅｒｙ               Ｐｒｏ               Ｔｏｂａｃｃｏ,               ｖｅｒｙ               ｗｈｉｔｅ               -               ａｎｄ               ｖｅｒｙ               Ｔｈｉｓ-ｉｓ-Ｇｏｄ'ｓ-ｃｏｕｎｔｒｙ,               ａ               ｐｈｒａｓｅ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｈｅａｒｄ               ｖｏｉｃｅｄ               ａ               ｌｏｔ.                Ａｓ               ｎｅａｒ               ａｓ               ｈｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｔｅｌｌ,               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ-Ｄｕｒｈａｍ               ｇｏｔ               ｉｔｓ               ｄｉｓｔａｓｔｅｆｕｌ               ｌｉｂｅｒａｌ               ｒｅｐｕｔａｔｉｏｎ               ｄｕｅ               ｉｎ               ｌａｒｇｅ               ｐａｒｔ               ｔｏ               Ｒｅｓｅａｒｃｈ               Ｔｒｉａｎｇｌｅ               Ｐａｒｋ,               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               Ｅａｓｔ               Ｃｏａｓｔ               ｖｅｒｓｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ｃｅｎｔｒａｌ               Ｃａｌｉｆｏｒｎｉａ'ｓ               Ｓｉｌｉｃｏｎｅ               Ｖａｌｌｅｙ. "Ｔｈｅ               Ｔｒｉａｎｇｌｅ,"               ｌｏｃａｔｅｄ               ｎｏｒｔｈｗｅｓｔ               ｏｆ               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ               ａｎｄ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               Ｉ-40               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ-Ｄｕｒｈａｍ               Ｉｎｔｅｒｎａｔｉｏｎａｌ               Ａｉｒｐｏｒｔ,               ｅｍｐｌｏｙｅｄ               ａ               ｌｏｔ               ｏｆ               Ｙａｎｋｅｅｓ               ｗｈｏｓｅ               ｃｏｍｐａｎｉｅｓ               ｈａｄ               ｍｏｖｅｄ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅｒｅ…ｐｅｒｈａｐｓ,               ｋｉｃｋｉｎｇ               ａｎｄ               ｓｃｒｅａｍｉｎｇ. Ｒｅｇａｒｄｌｅｓｓ,               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ               ｋｅｐｔ               ｉｔｓ               ｓｏｕｔｈｅｒｎ               ｆｅｅｌ. Ｎｏ               ｏｎｅ               ｈａｄ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｃｏｎｆｕｓｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｌａｃｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               Ａｌｂａｎｙ,               Ｆｒａｍｉｎｇｈａｍ               ｏｒ               Ｆｏｒｔ               Ｌｅｅ.                Ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｇｉｏｎ               ｗａｓ               ｖｅｒｙ,               ｖｅｒｙ               ｇｒｅｅｎ. Ｐｉｎｅ               ｔｒｅｅｓ               ｓｐｒｏｕｔｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｅｖｅｒｙｗｈｅｒｅ,               ｓｕｇｇｅｓｔｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               1,000               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｆｏｒ               ｅｖｅｒｙ               ｐｅｒｓｏｎ;               ａｎｄ               ｌｉｖｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ/Ｄｕｒｈａｍ/Ｃｈａｐｅｌ               Ｈｉｌｌ               ａｒｅａ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ａ               ｐｒｉｓｏｎ               ｓｅｎｔｅｎｃｅ. Ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｍａｊｏｒ               ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｉｔｉｅｓ               (Ｎｏｒｔｈ               Ｃａｒｏｌｉｎａ               Ｓｔａｔｅ               [ｊｕｓｔ               ｏｕｔｓｉｄｅ               ｄｏｗｎｔｏｗｎ               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ];               Ｄｕｋｅ               ｉｎ               Ｄｕｒｈａｍ;               ａｎｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｏａｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅｒｅ,               ＵＮＣ               ｉｎ               Ｃｈａｐｅｌ               Ｈｉｌｌ)               ｓｅｒｖｅｄ               ａｓ               ｃｕｌｔｕｒａｌ               ｆｏｃａｌ               ｐｏｉｎｔｓ.                Ｓｔｉｌｌ               -               Ｔｏｍ               ｐｒｏｂａｂｌｙ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｓｔａｙｅｄ               ｉｎ               Ｍａｉｎｅ               ｈａｄ               ｈｅ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ｗｏｒｋ               ｕｐ               ｔｈｅｒｅ. Ｂｕｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｅｃｏｎｏｍｙ               ｎｏｗ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｎｅａｒｌｙ               ｂａｎｋｒｕｐｔ.                Ｍｏｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｎｅｙ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｈｉｓ               ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ'               ｗｉｌｌ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏｗ               ｅｉｔｈｅｒ               ｇｏｎｅ               ｏｒ               ｔｉｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｏｕｓｅ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｂｏｕｇｈｔ               (ａ               ｂｉｔ               ｔｏｏ               ｓｐｏｎｔａｎｅｏｕｓｌｙ)               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｅｎｔｒａｌ               Ｍａｉｎｅ               ｃｏａｓｔａｌ               ｔｏｗｎ               ｏｆ               Ｃａｓｔｉｎｅ,               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｈｏｐｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｒｏｏｓｔ               ａｎｄ               ｌａｕｎｃｈ               ｈｉｓ               ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ               ｃａｒｅｅｒ. Ｂｕｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｍａｔｅｒｉａｌｉｚｅｄ. (Ｈｅ               ｈａｄ               ｌｏｎｇ-ｓｉｎｃｅ               ｇｒａｄｕａｔｅｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｓｅｍｉｎａｒｙ               ｉｎ               Ｂａｎｇｏｒ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｉｓ               ｇｒａｄｕａｔｅ               ｄｅｇｒｅｅ,               ｔｈｅｒｅｉｎ               ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｎｄｉｔｉｏｎｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｉｎｈｅｒｉｔａｎｃｅ               ｉｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｌａｔｅ               ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ'               ｗｉｌｌ.)               Ｃｈｉｅｆ               ｓｔｕｍｂｌｉｎｇ               ｂｌｏｃｋ:               Ｔｈｅ               ｉｄｅａｓ               Ｔｏｍ               ｐｒｏｍｏｔｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｕｂｍｉｔｔｅｄ               ａｒｔｉｃｌｅｓ               ｒａｎ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｏｐｅｎ               ｒｅｓｉｓｔａｎｃｅ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｅｄｉｔｏｒｓ,               ａ               ｆａｌｌｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｙｍｐａｔｈｙ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｉｎｇｓ               "Ｎｅｗ               Ａｇｅ."               (Ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｈｅ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｔｈｅ               Ｎｅｗ               Ａｇｅ               ｗａｓ               …               ｏｖｅｒ?)                Ｗｈａｔｅｖｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               1990ｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ａｂｏｕｔ,               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ               ｃｏｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｒｅａｌｉｚｅ,               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｂｅ               ｉｎｃｌｕｄｉｎｇ               ｓｐｅｃｕｌａｔｉｖｅ               ｍｅｔａｐｈｙｓｉｃｓ.                Ｔｏｍ               ａｌｓｏ               ｌｅａｒｎｅｄ               ｈｅ               ｈａｄ               ａ               "ｎｏｎ-ｄｉｓｃｒｉｍｉｎａｔｉｎｇ               ａｕｄｉｅｎｃｅ;"               ｓｏ,               ｎｏ               ｍａｒｋｅｔ. Ｓｅｒｉｏｕｓ               ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｅｒｓ/ｔｈｅｏｌｏｇｉａｎｓ,               ｏｎ               ｏｎｅ               ｈａｎｄ               (ｉ.ｅ.,               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ａｆｆｉｌｉａｔｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｉｔｉｅｓ/ｓｅｍｉｎａｒｉｅｓ),               ｒｅｊｅｃｔｅｄ               ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ               ｐｅｒｃｅｉｖｅｄ               ａｓ               Ｎｅｗ               Ａｇｅ               ｏｕｔ-ｏｆ-ｈａｎｄ;               ｍｅａｎｗｈｉｌｅ,               ｉｎｃｒｅｄｉｂｌｙ,               ｍｏｓｔ               Ｎｅｗ               Ａｇｅ               ｐｕｂｌｉｃａｔｉｏｎｓ               ｗｅｒｅｎ'ｔ               ｉｎｔｅｒｅｓｔｅｄ               ｉｎ               Ｉｓｓｕｅｓ               ｏｆ               Ｄｉｓｃｅｒｎｍｅｎｔ               (ａｓ               ｈｉｓ               ｐｒｏｆｅｓｓｏｒｓ               ａｔ               Ｂａｎｇｏｒ               Ｔｈｅｏｌｏｇｉｃａｌ               Ｓｅｍｉｎａｒｙ               ｕｓｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｃａｌｌ               ｔｈｅｍ),               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｉｓ               ｗｈａｔ               ｈｅ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｍａｔｔｅｒｅｄ. Ｔｏｍ               ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｍａｎｙ               ｓｏ-ｃａｌｌｅｄ               ｐａｒａｎｏｒｍａｌ               ｅｘｐｅｒｉｅｎｃｅｓ               (ｈｅ'ｄ               ｈａｄ               ｐｌｅｎｔｙ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｏｗｎ               ｉｎ               ｃｈｉｌｄｈｏｏｄ),               ｙｅｔ               ｈｅ               ａｌｗａｙｓ               ｈｅｓｉｔａｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ａｔｔｅｍｐｔ               ｔｏ               ｉｎｔｅｒｐｒｅｔ               ｔｈｅｍ,               ｆｏｒ               ｌａｃｋ               ｏｆ               ｉｎｆｏｒｍａｔｉｏｎ. Ｂｕｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｒｅａｓｏｎｓ               ｈｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｆａｔｈｏｍ,               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ               ｅｌｓｅ               ｈｅ               ｅｎｃｏｕｎｔｅｒｅｄ               ｎｏｗａｄａｙｓ               ｉｎｓｉｓｔｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｅｉｔｈｅｒ               ｐａｔ               ｅｘｐｌａｎａｔｉｏｎｓ,               ｏｒ               ｂｌｏｗｉｎｇ-ｏｆｆ               ｍｅｔａｐｈｙｓｉｃａｌ               ｓｃｒｕｔｉｎｙ,               ｌａｂｅｌｉｎｇ               ｉｔ               ｍｅｒｉｔｌｅｓｓ. (Ａｓ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｏｒｍｅｒ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｈｅｌｐ               ｎｏｔｉｃｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｕｎｔｌｅｓｓ               ｃａｓｕａｌｌｙ-ａｐｐｌｉｅｄ               ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒｉｓｔｉｃｓ               ｏｆ               "Ｇｏｄ"               ｃｏｍｍｏｎｌｙ               ｖｏｉｃｅｄ               ａｓ               ｆａｃｔ,               ｉｎ               ｂｏｔｈ               Ａ.Ａ. ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇｓ               ａｎｄ               ｉｎ               ｃｈｕｒｃｈ.)               Ｗｈｅｎ               ｉｔ               ｃａｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｓｐｉｒｉｔｕａｌ               ｂｅｌｉｅｆｓ,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｅｉｔｈｅｒ               ｆｅａｓｔ,               ｏｒ               ｆａｍｉｎｅ:               ｙｏｕ               ｗｅｒｅ               ａ               ｔｒｕｅ               ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅｒ,               ｌｉｋｅ               ａ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎ               -               ｏｒ               ａ               ｆｕｎｃｔｉｏｎｉｎｇ               ａｔｈｅｉｓｔ. Ｉｎ               Ａｍｅｒｉｃａ,               ｐａｒｔｉｃｕｌａｒｌｙ               ｏｆ               ｌａｔｅ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｒｅａｌｉｚｅｄ,               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｒｅｍａｉｎｅｄ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｒｏｏｍ               ｉｎ-ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ.                Ｈｕｍａｎ               ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｉｅｓ,               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｅｖｅｒｙｗｈｅｒｅ,               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｃｏｍｅ               ｄｕａｌｉｓｔｉｃ.                                "Ｄｏ               ｙｏｕ               ｗａｎｔ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｒｉｇｈｔ? Ｏｒ               ｈａｐｐｙ?"               Ｔｏｍ'ｓ               ｌａｔｅ               ｆｏｒｍｅｒ               Ａ.Ａ. ｓｐｏｎｓｏｒ,               Ｗａｌｔｅｒ,               ｏｎｃｅ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｈｉｍ               ｄｕｒｉｎｇ               ａ               ｌｏｎｇ-ｄｉｓｔａｎｃｅ               ｃａｌｌ. Ｔｏｍ               ｒｅｓｐｏｎｄｅｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈｅ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｑｕｅｓｔｉｏｎ               -               ｗｈｙ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｈｅ               ｂｅ               ｂｏｔｈ? "Ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ,"               Ｗａｌｔｅｒ               ｅｘｐｌａｉｎｅｄ,               "ａｌｃｏｈｏｌｉｃｓ               ｗｈｏ               ｔｅｎｄ               ｔｏ               ｆｏｃｕｓ               ｏｎ               ｗｈａｔ'ｓ               ｒｉｇｈｔ               ｏｒ               ｗｒｏｎｇ,               ｅｎｄ               ｕｐ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｏｔｔｌｅ."               Ｗｅｌｌ;               ｗｈｙ,               Ｔｏｍ               ａｓｋｅｄ? "Ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｅｖｅｒｙｔｈｉｎｇ               ｗｅ               ｄｏ               ｉｓ               ｉｎ               ｅｘｔｒｅｍｅｓ,"               Ｗａｌｔｅｒ               ｓａｉｄ. "Ｗｅ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ               ｌｅａｒｎ               ａ               ｎｅｗ               ｗａｙ               ｔｏ               ｇｅｔ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｌｉｆｅ."                Ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｉｎｔ               Ｗａｌｔｅｒ               ｈａｄ               ａｔｔｅｍｐｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｍａｋｅ               -               ｂｅｙｏｎｄ               ｓｕｇｇｅｓｔｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｗｈｏ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｎｏｎ-ｉｓｓｕｅ-ｏｒｉｅｎｔｅｄ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｈａｐｐｉｅｒ               -               ｗａｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｒｅｃｏｖｅｒｉｎｇ               ａｌｃｏｈｏｌｉｃｓ               ｏｆｔｅｎ               ｃｌｕｎｇ               ｔｏ               ａｎ               ｅｉｔｈｅｒ-ｏｒ               ｆｏｃｕｓ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｒｅｂｕｉｌｄｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｌｉｖｅｓ,               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｓａｋｅ               ｏｆ               ｒｅｃｏｖｅｒｙ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｎｏ-ｎｏ.                Ｐｕｔ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｗａｙ:               ａｌｃｏｈｏｌｉｃｓ               ｏｆｔｅｎ               ｖｉｅｗｅｄ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｄｕａｌｉｓｔｉｃａｌｌｙ.                Ｔｏｍ               ｈａｄ               ｇｒｏｗｎ               ｔｏ               ａｇｒｅｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈａｔ               ｖｉｅｗ. Ｔｈｕｓ               ｉｔ               ｔｒｏｕｂｌｅｄ               ｈｉｍ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ｓａｗ               ｓｏｃｉｅｔｙ               ｅｍｂｒａｃｉｎｇ               ｄｕａｌｉｓｍ. Ｓｏ:               ｗａｓ               ｓｏｃｉｅｔｙ               ａｄｄｉｃｔｅｄ?                Ａｎｄ               ｉｆ               ｓｏ               -               ｔｏ               ｗｈａｔ? Ｗａｓ               ａｄｄｉｃｔｉｏｎ               ｅｖｅｎ               ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｅ               ｅｎ               ｍａｓｓｅ?                Ｉｆ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               …               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｓｏｃｉｅｔｙ               ｈｉｔ               ｂｏｔｔｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｗａｙ               ａｎ               ａｄｄｉｃｔ               ｄｏｅｓ?                "Ｌｉｆｅ               ｉｓｎ'ｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｂｌａｃｋ               ｏｒ               ｗｈｉｔｅ,"               Ｗａｌｔｅｒ               ｏｆｔｅｎ               ｓａｉｄ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｄｕａｌｉｓｍ. "Ｉｔ'ｓ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｌｅａｒｎｉｎｇ               ｈｏｗ               ｔｏ               ｎａｖｉｇａｔｅ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｒａｙ."                Ｓａｄｌｙ,               Ｗａｌｔｅｒ               ｈａｄ               ｄｉｅｄ               ｏｆ               ｐｒｏｓｔａｔｅ               ｃａｎｃｅｒ               ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｙｅａｒｓ               ｂａｃｋ.                                Ｈｅｒｅ               ｎｏｗ,               ｔｏｄａｙ,               ａｓ               ｈｅ               ｓｔｅｐｐｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｗａｓ               ｄｏｉｎｇ               ｈｉｓ               ｂｅｓｔ               ｎｏｔ               ｔｏ               ｖｉｅｗ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｎｔｅｎｔｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｅｔｔｅｒ               ｈｅ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｏｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｄｉｎｉｎｇ               ｔａｂｌｅ               ａｓ               ｓｔｒｉｃｔｌｙ               ｎｅｇａｔｉｖｅ,               ｓｔｒｉｃｔｌｙ               ｗｒｏｎｇ:               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｏｏ               "ｅｉｔｈｅｒ-ｏｒ."               Ｂｕｔ,               ｈｅ               ｒｅａｌｉｚｅｄ,               ｓｈａｋｉｎｇ               ｈｉｓ               ｈｅａｄ               -               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｓｔｒｕｇｇｌｉｎｇ. Ｔｈｅ               ｌｅｔｔｅｒ               ｗａｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｃｏｕｐｌｅ               ｗｈｏ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｒｅｎｔｉｎｇ               ｈｉｓ               ｈｏｕｓｅ               ｉｎ               Ｃａｓｔｉｎｅ. Ｔｈｅｙ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｈｉｍ               ｔｈａｔ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｎｔｈ               ｔｈｅｙ'ｄ               ｂｅ               ｆｏｒｃｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｌｏｃａｔｅ               "ｄｕｅ               ｔｏ               ａ               ｓｕｄｄｅｎ               ｄｅａｔｈ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｆａｍｉｌｙ."               Ｆａｃｔ               ｗａｓ,               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｆｅｗ               ｊｏｂｓ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔａｔｅ               ｏｆ               Ｍａｉｎｅ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｄａｙｓ               (ｍｕｃｈ               ｌｅｓｓ               ａｎｙｗｈｅｒｅ               ｎｅａｒ               ｓｅｒｅｎｅ,               ｂｕｔ               ｉｓｏｌａｔｅｄ               Ｃａｓｔｉｎｅ)               -               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｕｓｂａｎｄ,               ａ               ｃａｒｐｅｎｔｅｒ               ｂｙ               ｔｒａｄｅ,               ｗａｓ               ｐｒｏｂａｂｌｙ               ｕｎａｂｌｅ               ｔｏ               ｆｉｎｄ               ｓｔｅａｄｙ               ｗｏｒｋ               ｕｐ               ｔｈｅｒｅ;               ｊｕｓｔ               ａｓ               Ｔｏｍ               ｈａｄ. Ｒｅｇａｒｄｌｅｓｓ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏｗ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｔｏ               ｐａｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｒｔｇａｇｅ               ｂｙ               ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｈｉｓ               Ｃａｓｔｉｎｅ               ｒｅａｌｔｏｒ               ｌｏｃａｔｅｄ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｒｅｎｔｅｒ,               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｓｈｅ               ｌｉｋｅｌｙ               ｗｏｕｌｄ:               ｊｏｂｓ               ｏｒ               ｎｏ               ｊｏｂｓ,               ｃｏａｓｔａｌ               Ｍａｉｎｅ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｐｏｐｕｌａｒ               ｐｌａｃｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｏｎｅｙ               ｔｏ               ｖｉｓｉｔ. Ｂｕｔ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｔｈｅｎ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｆｏｒｋ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｗｏ               ｓｅｐａｒａｔｅ               ｍｏｎｔｈｌｙ               ｈｏｕｓｉｎｇ               ｐａｙｍｅｎｔｓ               -               ｈｅｒｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ.                                Ｕｎｅｘｐｅｃｔｅｄｌｙ,               ａ               ｗｅｔ               ｍｕｚｚｌｅ               ｗｏｒｋｅｄ               ｉｔｓ               ｗａｙ               ｉｎｔｏ               Ｔｏｍ'ｓ               ｈａｎｄ               -               ａｎｄ               ｈｅ               ａｗａｋｅｎｅｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｈｉｓ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔｓ               ｔｏ               ｆｉｎｄ               ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ               ｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ               ｏｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｌａｗｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｉｓ               ｎｅｘｔ-ｄｏｏｒ               ｎｅｉｇｈｂｏｒ'ｓ               ｄｏｇ,               Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ,               ｄａｎｃｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｍ               ｉｎ               ｓｅａｒｃｈ               ｏｆ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｐｅｔｔｉｎｇ               ａｎｄ               ａｔｔｅｎｔｉｏｎ.                "Ｙｏｕ               ｇｏｔ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｂａｌｌ? Ｏｒ,               ｓｈｏｕｌｄ               Ｉ               ｇｅｔ               ｍｉｎｅ?"               ａ               ｆａｍｉｌｉａｒ               ｖｏｉｃｅ               ｃａｌｌｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｘｔ-ｄｏｏｒ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ'ｓ               ｂｅｄｒｏｏｍ               ｗｉｎｄｏｗ.                Ｔｏｍ               ｇｌａｎｃｅｄ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｉｎｄｏｗ,               ｔｈｅｎ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ｅｍｐｔｙ               ｇｌｏｖｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｂａｃｋ               ａｇａｉｎ               -ａｎｄ               ｓｍｉｌｅｄ. "Ｙｏｕｒｓ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｓａｉｄ.                "Ｂｅ               ｒｉｇｈｔ               ｔｈｅｒｅ,"               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               Ｍｏｒｇａｎ,               ａ               ｂｌａｃｋ               ｍａｎ               ｉｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｍｉｄ-30ｓ,               ｃａｌｌｅｄ               ｂａｃｋ. "Ｗａｎｔ               ｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｇｒａｂ               ａ               ｂｅｅｒ               ｆｏｒ               ｙｏｕ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｗａｙ?"                Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｗａｓ               ｋｉｄｄｉｎｇ. Ｈｅ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ｔｏ               ａｓｋ               Ｔｏｍ               ｓｕｃｈ               ａ               ｑｕｅｓｔｉｏｎ.                Ｔｏｍ               ｒａｉｓｅｄ               ａｎ               ｅｙｅｂｒｏｗ. "Ｔｈａｎｋ               ｙｏｕ               -               ｎｏ,"               ｈｅ               ｓａｉｄ.                "Ｗｈｉｌｅ               ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ               ｗａｉｔｉｎｇ,"               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ               ｖｏｉｃｅ               ｓｈｏｔ               ｂａｃｋ,               "ｆｅｅｄ               Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｅ,               ｗｉｌｌ               ｙｏｕ?"                "Ｎｏ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｒｅｐｅａｔｅｄ,               ｆｌａｔｌｙ.                Ｈｅ               ｋｎｅｗ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｗａｓ               ｊｏｋｉｎｇ               ａｇａｉｎ.                Ｉｎ               ｆａｃｔ,               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｈａｄ               ａｌｒｅａｄｙ               ｄｉｓａｐｐｅａｒｅｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｈｉｓ               ｗｉｎｄｏｗ.                                "Ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ｙｏｕ               ｆｅｅｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｄｏｇ,               ｔｈａｎ               Ｉ               ｆｉｎｄ               ｈｉｍ               ｇｏｉｎ'               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｍｙ               ｔｒａｓｈ               ｃａｎｓ               ａｇａｉｎ,"               ａ               ｍａｎ'ｓ               ｖｏｉｃｅ               ｉｎｔｅｒｒｕｐｔｅｄ. Ｉｔ               ｃａｍｅ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｙａｒｄ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ.                Ｇｌａｎｃｉｎｇ               ｏｖｅｒ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｓａｗ               ａ               ｍｅａｔｙ,               ｇｌｏｗｅｒｉｎｇ               ｗｈｉｔｅ               ｍａｎ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｃｕｔｏｆｆ               ｓｗｅａｔｓｈｉｒｔ,               ｊｅａｎｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｂｏｏｔｓ               ｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅｒｅ,               ｓｎｅｅｒｉｎｇ.                "'Ｓｃｕｓｅ               ｍｅ?"               Ｔｏｍ               ｒｅｓｐｏｎｄｅｄ,               ｕｎａｗａｒｅ               ａｎｙｏｎｅ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅｒｅ,               ｍｕｃｈ               ｌｅｓｓ               ｌｉｓｔｅｎｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｏｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｃｏｎｖｅｒｓａｔｉｏｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ.                "Ｏｈ,               Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｙｏｕ               ｈｅａｒｄ               ｍｅ,"               ｔｈｅ               ｇｌｏｗｅｒｉｎｇ               ｍａｎ               ｇｒｉｎｎｅｄ. Ｈｅ               ｗａｉｔｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               Ｔｏｍ'ｓ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｔｏ               ｍｅｅｔ               ｈｉｓ. Ｏｎｃｅ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｄｉｄ,               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｎ               ｔｕｒｎｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｓｔｒｏｄｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｉｃｋｕｐ               ｔｒｕｃｋ               ｐａｒｋｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｄｒｉｖｅｗａｙ.                Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｂｉｇ               ｄｕａｌｌｙ               -               "ｄｏｏｌｅｙ,"               ｗｉｔｈ               ｏｎｅ               ｐａｉｒ               ｏｆ               ｔｉｒｅｓ               ｍａｔｃｈｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｎｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               ａｎ               ｏｕｔｅｒ               ｓｅｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｉｒｅｓ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅａｒ,               ａｓ               ｉｆ               ｉｔ               ｗｅｒｅ               ａ               ｌａｒｇｅ               ｒｉｇ;               ａｎ               ａｆｆｅｃｔａｔｉｏｎ               ｐｏｐｕｌａｒ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｃｏｕｎｔｌｅｓｓ               ｔｒｕｃｋ               ｏｗｎｅｒｓ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ｄｅｅｐ               Ｓｏｕｔｈ               -               ｒｅｐｌｅｔｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｌａｋｅｓ               ｐｉｐｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ｒｅｂｅｌ               ｆｌａｇ               ｓｔｉｃｋｅｒｓ.                Ｉｔｓ               ｂｒｉｇｈｔ               ｒｅｄ               ｈｏｏｄ               ｗａｓ               ｒａｉｓｅｄ.                                "Ｗｈｏ'ｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｌｙ               ｎｅｉｇｈｂｏｒ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ａｓｋｅｄ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ,               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｔｔｅｒ               ａｒｒｉｖｅｄ               ｃａｒｒｙｉｎｇ               ｈｉｓ               ｂａｓｅｂａｌｌ               ａｎｄ               ｇｌｏｖｅ.                Ｉｎ               Ｔｏｍ'ｓ               43               (ｍｏｓｔｌｙ               ｒａｃｉａｌｌｙ-ｓｅｇｒｅｇａｔｅｄ)               ｙｅａｒｓ,               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｃｏｍｅ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｒａｒｅ               ｂｌａｃｋ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ. Ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｎｔｈ               ｏｒ               ｓｏ               ｓｉｎｃｅ               Ｔｏｍ               ｍｏｖｅｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｍａｌｌ,               ｉｓｏｌａｔｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ａｇｉｎｇ               ｃｏｍｐｌｅｘ,               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｐａｉｄ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ａｔｔｅｎｔｉｏｎ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ｎｅｉｇｈｂｏｒｓ. Ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｉｎ               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ               ｔｏ               ｗｏｒｋ.                Ｂｕｔ               ｈｅ               ｍｅｔ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｅａｒｌｙ               ｏｎ,               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｒｎｅｒ               ｂａｌｌｆｉｅｌｄ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｒｅｅｔ. Ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｂｏｔｈ               ａｖｉｄ               ｂａｓｅｂａｌｌ               ｆａｎｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｂｏｔｈ               ｌｏｎｇ-ｔｉｍｅ               ｆｏｌｌｏｗｅｒｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ａｔｌａｎｔａ               Ｂｒａｖｅｓ. Ｔｏｍ               ｅｎｊｏｙｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               Ｄａｌｅ               Ｍｕｒｐｈｙ-ｌｅｄ               Ｂｒａｖｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               80ｓ. Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｌｉｋｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｕｒｒｅｎｔ               ｔｅａｍ,               ａ               ｃｏｎｔｅｎｄｅｒ.                                "Ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｗｈａｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｎａｍｅ               ｉｓ,"               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｓａｉｄ,               ｐｅｅｒｉｎｇ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｒｕｃｋ'ｓ               ｏｗｎｅｒ. "Ｉ               ｃａｌｌ               ｈｉｍ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ. Ｈｅ'ｓ               ａ               ｄｕｍｂ               ｂｕｌｌｙ,               ａ               ｒｅｄｎｅｃｋ. Ｔａｌｋｓ               ｂｉｇ,               ｌｉｋｅｓ               ｔｏ               ｍａｋｅ               ｔｈｒｅａｔｓ."                "Ｉｓｎ'ｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗｈａｔ               ｒｅｄｎｅｃｋｓ               ｄｏ?"               Ｔｏｍ               ａｓｋｅｄ,               ａｔｔｅｍｐｔｉｎｇ               ａ               ｊｏｋｅ.                Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｈａｒｄｅｎｅｄ. "Ｓ'ｐｏｓｅ. Ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｓｅｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｌｉｔｉｃｉａｎｓ               ｌｉｎｉｎｇ               ｕｐ               ｍｏｒｅ               ａｎｄ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｋｉｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｇｕｙ,               ａｎｄ               ｓｏ               ｈｅ               ｓｔｒｕｔｓ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｈｉｔ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｓｔｉｎｋ               …               Ａｎｙｗａｙ               -               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｂｅｓｔ               ｎｏｔ               ｓｃｒｅｗ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｙ               Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ."                Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ               ｇａｚｅｄ               ｕｐ,               ａｎｄ               ｊｏｙｆｕｌｌｙ               ｗａｇｇｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｔａｉｌ. Ｂｏｔｈ               ｈｕｍａｎｓ,               ｗｈｏ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ               ｈｉｓ               ｗａｙ               ｎｏｗ,               ｗｅｒｅ               ｃｌｅａｒｌｙ               ｔａｌｋｉｎｇ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｈｉｍ.                Ｔｏｍ               ｆｒｏｗｎｅｄ               ｓｙｍｐａｔｈｅｔｉｃａｌｌｙ               ａｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄ'ｓ               ｃｏｍｍｅｎｔｓ.                Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｏｂｌｉｇｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｅｘｐｌａｉｎ. "Ｔｈｅ               ｇｕｙ'ｓ               ｔｈｒｅａｔｅｎｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｈｕｒｔ               ｍｙ               ｄｏｇ               ｉｆ               Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｌｅａｓｈ               ｈｉｍ. Ｂｕｔ               ｏｕｔ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｗａｙ,               ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ               ｎｏ               ｌｅａｓｈ               ｌａｗｓ,               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｆｉｇｕｒｅ               ｗｅ               ｇｏｔ               ｏｕｒ               ｒｉｇｈｔｓ. Ｐｉｓｓ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｕｄｅ."                Ｔｏｍ               ｓｈｒｕｇｇｅｄ. "Ｗｈａｔ               ｋｉｎｄｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｒｅａｔｓ               ｈａｓ               ｈｅ               ｍａｄｅ?"                "Ｊｕｓｔ               ｗｏｒｄｓ,"               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｓａｉｄ,               ｓｑｕｉｎｔｉｎｇ. "Ｊｕｓｔ               ｔａｌｋｉｎ'               ｔｒａｓｈ."               Ｈｅ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｓｉｇｈｅｄ. "Ｙｏｕ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｇｏｎｎａ               ｓｈｏｗ               ｍｅ               ｈｏｗ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｒｏｗ               ａ               Ｐｈｉｌ               Ｎｉｅｋｒｏ               ｋｎｕｃｋｌｅｒ."                                Ｔｏｍ               ｎｏｄｄｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｓｅｂａｌｌ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ. Ｔｏ               ｉｌｌｕｓｔｒａｔｅ,               ｈｅ               ｐｒｅｓｓｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｐｓ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｍｉｄｄｌｅ               ｆｉｎｇｅｒｓ               ｏｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｒｉｇｈｔ               ｈａｎｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｌｌ'ｓ               ｓｅａｍｓ. Ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｋｎｕｃｋｌｅｓ               ｒａｉｓｅｄ,               ｈｉｓ               ｔｈｕｍｂ               ａｎｄ               ｓｍａｌｌ               ｆｉｎｇｅｒ               ｇｒｉｐｐｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｓｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｌｌ               ｕｎｄｅｒｎｅａｔｈ.                "Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｈｏｗ               Ｐｈｉｌ-Ｎｉｅｋｒｏ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｇｒｉｐ               ｉｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ｙｏｕ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｔｈｒｏｗ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｉｔｃｈ. Ｙｏｕ               ｋｉｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｐｕｓｈ               ｉｔ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｓａｉｄ,               ａｓ               ｈｅ               ｄｅｍｏｎｓｔｒａｔｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｓｈｏｔ-ｐｕｔ-ｌｉｋｅ               ａｒｍ               ｍｏｔｉｏｎ.                Ｈｅ'ｄ               ｔａｕｇｈｔ               ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｉｔｃｈ               ａｓ               ａ               ｔｅｅｎａｇｅｒ               ｗｈｉｌｅ               ｐｌａｙｉｎｇ               ｓａｎｄｌｏｔ               ｂａｓｅｂａｌｌ               ｉｎ               Ｆｏｒｔ               Ｌａｕｄｅｒｄａｌｅ.                                Ａｆｔｅｒ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｔｏｓｓｅｓ               ｂａｃｋ               ａｎｄ               ｆｏｒｔｈ               ｉｎ               Ｔｏｍ'ｓ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｙａｒｄ,               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｗａｓ               ｕｎｉｍｐｒｅｓｓｅｄ.                "Ｙｏｕｒ               ｐｉｔｃｈ               ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ               ｄｏ               ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ,"               ｈｅ               ｓａｉｄ,               ｆｒｏｗｎｉｎｇ. "Ｗｈｅｎ               ｄｏｅｓ               ｉｔ,               ｙｏｕ               ｋｎｏｗ. Ｈｏｐ?"                "'Ｈｏｐ?'"               Ｔｏｍ               ｓａｉｄ,               ｆｅｉｇｎｉｎｇ               ｃｏｎｆｕｓｉｏｎ.                "Ａ               ｋｎｕｃｋｌｅｂａｌｌ               ｈｏｐｓ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｌａｔｅ,"               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｓａｉｄ. "Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ               ｗｈｙ               ｐｉｔｃｈｅｒｓ               ｌｅａｒｎ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｒｏｗ               ｉｔ. Ｔｈｅ               ｐｉｔｃｈｅｒ               ｔｈｒｏｗｓ               -               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｌｌ               ｈｏｐｓ. Ｔｈｅ               ｂａｔｔｅｒ               ｓｗｉｎｇｓ,               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｔｔｅｒ               ｍｉｓｓｅｓ               …               Ｗｈａｔ               ａｍ               Ｉ               ｍｉｓｓｉｎｇ               ｈｅｒｅ?"                "Ｍｙ               ｋｎｕｃｋｌｅｂａｌｌ               ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ               ｈｏｐ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｓａｉｄ. "Ｉｔ               ｊｕｓｔ               …               ｆｌｏａｔｓ."                "Ｉｔ               ｆｌｏａｔｓ,"               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｒｅｐｅａｔｅｄ,               ａｍｕｓｅｄ. "Ｌｉｋｅ               ａ               ｂａｌｌｏｏｎ?"                "Ｙｅｈ. Ｌｉｋｅ               ｔｈａｔ. Ｙｏｕ               ｃａｎ               ｅｖｅｎ               ｃｏｕｎｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｅａｍｓ               ａｓ               ｉｔ               ｌｏｂｓ               ｉｎ. Ｌｉｋｅ               ａ               ｓｌｏｗ-ｐｉｔｃｈｅｄ               ｓｏｆｔｂａｌｌ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｓａｉｄ. "Ｂｕｔ               ｉｔ               ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ               ｄｏ               ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ               ｅｌｓｅ. Ｉｔ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｌｏｏｋｓ               ｎｅａｔ. Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ               ｗｈｙ               Ｉ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｐｉｔｃｈｅｄ."                                *               *               *               *               *                Ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｈｅｅｌ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｃａｒ               (ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｏｎｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｇｉｏｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｒｅｄ-ｌｏｂｓｔｅｒ/ｗｈｉｔｅ-ｐｌａｔｅｄ               Ｍａｉｎｅ               ｔａｇｓ,               ａｐｐａｒｅｎｔｌｙ),               Ｔｏｍ               ｗａｓ               ｌｏｓｔ               ｉｎ               ｄｅｅｐ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｏｎｃｅ               ａｇａｉｎ               ｗｈｉｌｅ               ｄｒｉｖｉｎｇ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｏｗｎ. Ｉｎｔｏ               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ.                Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏｗ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｔｈａｎ               ａ               ｄｅｃａｄｅ               ｓｉｎｃｅ               Ｔｏｍ               ｈａｄ               ｔａｋｅｎ               ａ               ｄｒｉｎｋ               ｏｆ               ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ               ａｌｃｏｈｏｌｉｃ               (ｉｎｃｌｕｄｉｎｇ               ｃｏｕｇｈ               ｓｙｒｕｐｓ)               -               ｂｕｔ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｃｏｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｃｏｇｎｉｚｅ               ｈｅ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｔｅｎｄｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｂｅｈａｖｅ               ｓｑｕｉｒｒｅｌｉｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ｍｏｓｔ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｍｅｔ               ａｔ               Ａ.Ａ. ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｓｉｍｉｌａｒ               ｌｅｎｇｔｈｓ               ｏｆ               ｓｏｂｒｉｅｔｙ.                Ｆｏｒ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｈｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｆｉｇｕｒｅ               ｏｕｔ               ｗｈｙ,               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｈｅ               ｎｏ               ｌｏｎｇｅｒ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ               ａ               ｄｒｉｎｋ. Ｂｕｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｃａｓｕａｌ               ｓｐｉｒｉｔｕａｌ               "ｇｒｏｗｔｈ"               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ,               ｉｔ               ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｍ,               ａｌｌ               ｔｈａｔ               ｉｔ               ｍａｙｂｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ.                Ｈｅ'ｄ               ｔａｋｅｎ               ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               Ｎｅｗ               Ａｇｅ               ｍｅｄｉｔａｔｉｏｎ               ｔａｐｅｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｉｍ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｍａｉｎｅ               (ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｅｓ               ｂｙ               "Ｌａｚａｒｉｓ"               ｗｅｒｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｆａｖｏｒｉｔｅｓ),               ｂｕｔ               ｏｄｄｌｙ,               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｒａｒｅｌｙ               ｂｏｔｈｅｒｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｔ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ               ｔｉｍｅ               ａｓｉｄｅ               ｔｏ               ｂｅｎｅｆｉｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅｍ.                Ｔｈｅ               ｑｕｅｓｔｉｏｎ               ｗａｓ               ｗｈｙ. Ｔｏｍ               ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅｄ               ｉｎ,               ｓａｙ,               ｌｉｆｅ               ｂｅｙｏｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｈｙｓｉｃａｌ               ｗｏｒｌｄ               ｕｎｅｑｕｉｖｏｃａｌｌｙ. Ｂｕｔ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａｎ               ｉｎｔｅｌｌｅｃｔｕａｌ               ｂｅｌｉｅｆ.                Ａｎｄ               ｔｈａｔ,               ｈｅ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｒｅｃｏｖｅｒｙ,               ｗａｓ               ｉｎａｄｅｑｕａｔｅ;               ｅｖｅｎ               ａ               ｌｉｅ. Ｈｉｓ               ｅｍｏｔｉｏｎｓ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ               ｔｏ               "ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ"               ｉｎ               ｉｔ,               ａｓ               ｗｅｌｌ,               ｓｏｍｅｈｏｗ               -               ａｎｄ               ａｐｐａｒｅｎｔｌｙ,               ｔｈｅｙ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ.                Ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｈａｄ               ｏｃｃｕｒｒｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｍ,               ｔｏｏ. Ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｈｅ               ｌｉｖｅｄ               ａｌｏｎｅ               ａｎｄ               ｈａｄ               ａ               ｈｉｓｔｏｒｙ               ｏｆ               ｎｏｔ               ｍａｋｉｎｇ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ,               ｅｉｔｈｅｒ               ｉｎ               Ｍａｉｎｅ               ｏｒ               Ｆｌｏｒｉｄａ,               ｈｅ               ａｖｏｉｄｅｄ               ｓｏｃｉａｌ               ｒｉｓｋｓ               -               ｌｉｋｅ               ｍａｋｉｎｇ               ａｎ               ｅｆｆｏｒｔ               ｔｏ               ｍｅｅｔ               ｎｅｗ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ. Ｓｏ               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｓｌｉｐｐｉｎｇ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎｔｏ               (ｇａｓｐ)               ｓｅｌｆ-ａｂｓｏｒｐｔｉｏｎ!                Ｙｅｓ,               ｈｅ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｔｏ               ｏｃｃａｓｉｏｎａｌ               Ａ.Ａ. ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇｓ               ｉｎ               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ. Ｂｕｔ               -                Ｉｔ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓａｍｅ. Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｉｓ               "Ｊｅｓｕｓ               ｔａｌｋ"               -               ａｎｄ               ｄｅｓｐｉｔｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｅｍｉｎａｒｙ               ｐａｓｔ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｗａｓ               ｄｅｃｉｄｅｄｌｙ               ｎｏｔ               ａ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎ.                Ｓｔｉｌｌ               -               ｓｏ               ｗｈａｔ? Ｐｒｏｔｅｓｔａｎｔ               ｒｅｌｉｇｉｏｎ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｎａｔｕｒｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｏｃａｌｓ'               ｃｕｌｔｕｒｅ               ｈｅｒｅ               ｉｎ               Ｎｏｒｔｈ               Ｃａｒｏｌｉｎａ               -               ａｓ               Ｊｕｄａｉｓｍ               ｏｆｔｅｎ               ｗａｓ               ｉｎ               Ｓｏｕｔｈ               Ｆｌｏｒｉｄａ               -               ａｎｄ               ａｓ               Ｃａｔｈｏｌｉｃｉｓｍ               ｗａｓ               ｉｎ               Ｍａｉｎｅ               …               Ｓｏ?                Ｓｏ               ｗｈａｔ. Ｓｏ               ｈｅ               ｏｐｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｐａｓｓ               ｏｎ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎｉｔｙ               -               ｗｈｏ               ｃａｒｅｄ?                Ｎｏ               ｏｎｅ               ｉｎｖｉｔｅｄ               Ｔｏｍ               ｔｏ               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ. Ｈｅ               ｍｏｖｅｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｏｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｏｗｎ.                Ｈｉｓ               ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｋｎｏｗ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｗａｓ,               ｔｒｕｔｈ               ｂｅ               ｓａｉｄ,               ａｎ               ａｃｃｉｄｅｎｔ.                Ｓｏ,               ｍａｙｂｅ,               ｗｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ:               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｓｗｉｔｃｈｅｄ               ａｄｄｉｃｔｉｏｎｓ!                                Ｎｏ               ｍａｙｂｅｓ               ｔｏ               ｉｔ:               ｔｈｅ               Ｐｏｒｋｙ               ｋｉｄ               ｈａｄ               ｅｖｏｌｖｅｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               ａ               ｆａｔ               ａｄｕｌｔ.                (Ｓｏｍｅ               ｃｌｕｅｓ:               ｈｅ               ｔｅｎｄｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｈｏａｒｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｏｏｄ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ａｔｅ;               ａｎｄ               ｈｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｓｅｅｍ               ｔｏ               ｓｔｏｐ               ｅａｔｉｎｇ               ｗａｙ-ｗａｙ               ｔｏｏ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ａｌｏｎｅ.)                Ｈｅ               ｗｏｒｋｅｄ               ｈａｒｄ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｄａｙｓ               ｔｈａｎｋｓ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ｎｅｗ               ｓｈｉｐｐｉｎｇ/ｒｅｃｅｉｖｉｎｇ               ｊｏｂ,               ｓｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｘｔｒａ               ｃａｌｏｒｉｅｓ               ｏｆｔｅｎ               ｂｕｒｎｅｄ               ｔｈｅｍｓｅｌｖｅｓ               ｏｆｆ;               ｌｏｔｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｄｉｄ.                Ｂｕｔ               ｃｌｅａｒｌｙ               ｎｏｔ               ａｌｌ. Ｂｅｓｉｄｅｓ,               ｗｅｉｇｈｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｏｎｌｙ               "ｉｓｓｕｅ."                Ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｌｏｎｅｌｉｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ｈｅ               ｒｅａｌｉｚｅｄ;               ａｎｄ               ｈｅ               ｌｏｎｇｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｒｏｍａｎｃｅ.                (...Ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｏｄ               ｓｗｉｎｇｓ               …)                Ｓｏ? Ｓｏ:               ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ａｂｏｖｅ               ｉｓ               ｗｈａｔ               ｌｅｄ               Ｔｏｍ               ｔｏ               ｂｅｇｉｎ               ａｔｔｅｎｄｉｎｇ               ａ               ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｔ               ｋｉｎｄ               ｏｆ               Ｔｗｅｌｖｅ               Ｓｔｅｐ               ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇ               ｕｐｏｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｍｏｖｅ               ｔｏ               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ.                Ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｉｓ               ｗｈｅｒｅ,               ｉｎ               ｆａｃｔ,               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｈｅａｄｉｎｇ               -               ｒｉｇｈｔ               ｎｏｗ.                                Ｉｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｐｒｅｓｅｎｔ               ｍｏｏｄ               (ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｈｏｌｄ               ｓｈｏｒｔｌｙ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｌｅｆｔ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｓｈｏｗｅｒｅｄ),               Ｔｏｍ               ｗａｓ               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｓｅｌｆ-ｃｒｉｔｉｃａｌ.                Ｓｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｏｃａｌｓ               ｓｐｏｋｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｓｌｉｇｈｔ               ｔｗａｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｐａｒｔｓ. Ｓｏ?                                *               *               *               *               *                "Ｈａａｈ,               Ｔｏｍ!"               ａ               ｆａｍｉｌｉａｒ,               ｃｈｉｒｐｙ               ｖｏｉｃｅ               ｃａｌｌｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｉｎｓｉｄｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇ               ｒｏｏｍ. "Ｐｒａｉｓｅ               ｂｅ,               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｅ               ｙａ'! Ｃｏｍｅ               ｏｎ               ｉｎ!"                "Ｈｉ,               Ｃｌａｒａ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｓｍｉｌｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎ,               ａｓ               ｈｅ               ｓｔｅｐｐｅｄ               ｉｎｓｉｄｅ               ｔｈｅ               Ｍｅｔｈｏｄｉｓｔ               ｃｈｕｒｃｈ'ｓ               ｒｅａｄｉｎｇ               ｒｏｏｍ,               ｔｈｅ               ｓｉｔｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｄａｙ'ｓ               ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇ.                "Ｏｈ,               ｙｏｕ               ｃｏｍｅ               ｈｅｒｅ               ａｎｄ               ｇｉｖｅ               Ｃｌａｒａ               ａｎ               ｏｌ'               ｈｕｇ!"               ｓｈｅ               ｗａｖｅｄ               ｂａｃｋ               ａｔ               ｈｉｍ,               ｕｒｇｉｎｇ               Ｔｏｍ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｍｅ               ｊｏｉｎ               ｈｅｒ               ａｔ               ｈｅｒ               ｅｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｔａｂｌｅ.                Ｓｏ               ｆａｒ,               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｏｎｌｙ               Ｃｌａｒａ               ａｎｄ               ｔｗｏ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｗｏｍｅｎ               ｐｒｅｓｅｎｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｏｄａｙ'ｓ               ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇ. Ｏｆ               ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｔｗｅｌｖｅ               Ｓｔｅｐ               ｇｒｏｕｐｓ,               ｔｈｉｓ               ｄｒｅｗ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｅａｓｔ.                Ａｌｗａｙｓ               Ｆｅｗ               ｌｉｋｅｄ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｔｏｏ               ｆａｔ,               ｏｒ               ｔｏｏ               ｓｋｉｎｎｙ.                Ｓｔｉｌｌ,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｅａｒｌｙ               ｙｅｔ.                Ｔｏｍ               ｗａｌｋｅｄ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｏ               Ｃｌａｒａ,               ｗｈｏｓｅ               ａｒｍｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｏｐｅｎ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｗａｉｔｉｎｇ               ｅｍｂｒａｃｅ. Ｈｅ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｌｅａｎｅｄ               ｏｖｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｅｎｇａｇｅｄ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｌｅｎｇｔｈｙ               ｈｕｇ.                "Ｉ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ               ａ               ｈｕｇ               ｔｏｄａｙ,               Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｗｈｉｓｐｅｒｅｄ               (ｍａｙｂｅ               ａ               ｂｉｔ               ｔｏｏ               ｐａｔｒｏｎｉｚｉｎｇｌｙ),               ａｓ               ｈｅ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｔｏ               ｐｕｌｌ               ａｗａｙ. "Ｔｈａｎｋｓ,               Ｃｌａｒａ."                "Ｏｈ,               ｎｏ,               ｂａｂｙ!"               Ｃｌａｒａ               ｂｅａｍｅｄ,               ｓｉｔｔｉｎｇ               ｂａｃｋ. "Ｔｈａｎｋ               ｙｅ-ｅｗ!"                                *               *               *               *               *                Ｆｕｌｌ               Ｐｈｙｓｉｃａｌ               Ｍａｎｉｆｅｓｔａｔｉｏｎｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｅｘｔｒｅｍｅｌｙ               ｈａｒｄ               ｔｏ               ｅｘｅｃｕｔｅ;               ｂｕｔ               ｏｎｃｅ               ａｃｃｏｍｐｌｉｓｈｅｄ,               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｕｓｕａｌｌｙ               ｆｒｅｅ               ｏｆ               ｃｏｍｐｌｉｃａｔｉｏｎｓ.                Ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓ               ｓｅｌｄｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｃａｓｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ＰＰＭｓ,               ｉｒｏｎｉｃａｌｌｙ.                Ｆｏｒ               ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｈｅｒ               ｔｒａｉｎｉｎｇ               ａｎｄ               ｅｘｐｅｒｉｅｎｃｅ,               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               Ｈｕｎｔ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ａｌｗａｙｓ               ｃｏｎｔｒｏｌ               ｈｏｗ               ｓｈｅ               ｃａｍｅ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｔｏ               ｈｅｒ               ｔａｒｇｅｔ               ｓｕｂｊｅｃｔｓ               ｄｕｒｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               Ｐａｒｔｉａｌ               Ｐｈｙｓｉｃａｌ               Ｍａｎｉｆｅｓｔａｔｉｏｎ               ｓｔａｔｅｓ               (ｉ.ｅ.,               ＰＰＭｓ).                Ｄｕｒｉｎｇ               ｈｅｒ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｖｏｙａｇｅｓ,               ｔｈｅ               ｔａｒｇｅｔ               ｓｕｂｊｅｃｔ,               ｏｒ               ｗｉｔｎｅｓｓ               (ｔｈｅ               ｉｎｄｉｖｉｄｕａｌ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ｖｉｓｉｔｅｄ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎ               ｐａｒａｌｌｅｌ               ｔｉｍｅ               [ｐａｒａｌｌｅｌ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｉｔｓｅｌｆ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ａ               ｓｅｐａｒａｔｅ               ｉｓｓｕｅ]),               ｈａｄ               ａｓ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｔｒａｖｅｌｅｒ'ｓ               ｍａｎｉｆｅｓｔｅｄ               ａｐｐｅａｒａｎｃｅ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｖｏｙａｇｅｒ               ｈｅｒｓｅｌｆ.                Ａｍｏｎｇ               ａｎ               ａｒｒａｙ               ｏｆ               ｆｉｎｉｔｅ               ｒｅｓｏｕｒｃｅｓ,               Ｊａｎｅ               Ｒｏｂｅｒｔｓ'               Ｓｅｔｈ               ｍａｔｅｒｉａｌ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｔｅ               20ｔｈ               Ｃｅｎｔｕｒｙ,               ｔｈｏｕｇｈ               ａｔ               ｔｉｍｅｓ               ｆｌａｗｅｄ               (ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｃｈａｎｎｅｌｅｄ,               ａｆｔｅｒ               ａｌｌ),               ｐｒｏｖｉｄｅｄ               ａｓ               ｍａｎｙ               ｐｒａｃｔｉｃａｌ               ｉｎｓｉｇｈｔｓ               ａｓ               ａｎｙ.                                Ｓｕｃｈ               ｐｅｃｕｌｉａｒｉｔｉｅｓ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ａｃｔ               ｏｆ               ｐｅｒｆｏｒｍｉｎｇ               ＰＰＭｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｒｏｕｔｉｎｅ. Ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｃｅｎｔ               ｒｅｃｏｒｄｅｄ               ｈｉｓｔｏｒｙ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｈｅｎｏｍｅｎｏｎ,               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｒｅａｌｉｚｅｄ,               ｎｅｇｏｔｉａｔｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｉｆｔ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｅｍｉ-ｐｈｙｓｉｃａｌ               ｗｏｒｌｄ               (ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｅｄｉｕｍ               ｆｏｒ               ｓｕｃｈ               ａ               ｃｏｍｐｌｉｃａｔｅｄ               ｔｒａｎｓｆｅｒ               ｏｆ               ｂｏｔｈ               ｃｏｎｓｃｉｏｕｓｎｅｓｓ               ａｎｄ               ｍａｎｉｐｕｌａｔｅｄ               ｅｎｅｒｇｉｅｓ)               ｗａｓ               ｐｒｏｂｌｅｍａｔｉｃ               ｆｏｒ               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ａｎｙｏｎｅ               ａｔｔｅｍｐｔｉｎｇ               ｉｔ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｉｔ,               ｔｏ               ｓａｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｅａｓｔ               -               ｐａｒｔｉｃｕｌａｒｌｙ               ｆｏｒ               ｐｈｙｓｉｃａｌ               ｗｏｒｌｄ-ｒｏｏｔｅｄ               ｐｅｒｓｏｎａｌｉｔｉｅｓ               ｌｉｋｅ               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               …               (Ｎｏｔ               ａｌｌ               ｆｏｒｍｓ               ｏｆ               ｃｏｎｓｃｉｏｕｓｎｅｓｓ,               ｒｅｓｅａｒｃｈｅｒｓ               ａｔ               Ｔｈｅ               Ｐｌａｎｔ               ｌｏｎｇ-ｓｉｎｃｅ               ｒｅａｌｉｚｅｄ,               ｆｏｒ               ｉｎｓｔａｎｃｅ,               ｗｅｒｅ               ｒｏｏｔｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｓｕｃｈ               ｓｔｒｉｃｔ               ｍａｔｅｒｉａｌ               ｗｏｒｌｄ               "ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｅｓ.")               Ｈｏｗ               ｍａｎｙ               ｅａｒｌｙ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｖｏｙａｇｅｒｓ               ｕｎｄｅｒｗｅｎｔ               ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｒｒｅｃｔ               ｐｓｙｃｈｏ-ｐｈｙｓｉｏｌｏｇｉｃａｌ               ｃｈａｎｇｅｓ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｏ               "ｓｈｏｗ               ｕｐ,"               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｅｓｉｇｎａｔｅｄ               (ｐａｒａｌｌｅｌ)               ｐａｓｔ,               ｉｎ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｒｒｅｃｔｌｙ-ｄｅｓｉｇｎａｔｅｄ               ｗｉｔｎｅｓｓ               …               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｏ               ａｐｐｅａｒ               ｉｎ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｕｎｉｎｔｅｎｄｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｏｕｔｒａｇｅｏｕｓ               ＰＰＭ?! (Ｔｈｉｓ               ｃｏｍｍｏｎｌｙ               ｍｅａｎｔ               ｕｎｉｎｔｅｎｔｉｏｎａｌｌｙ               "ｃｏｍｉｎｇ               ｏｎ"               ｔｏ               ｓｕｃｈ               ｗｉｔｎｅｓｓｅｓ               ａｓ               ａ               ｓａｌｉｖａｔｉｎｇ               ｄｅｍｏｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｒｅｄ               ｅｙｅｓ,               ｓａｙ;               ｏｒ,               ａｓ               ａ               ｂｌｉｎｄｉｎｇ               ａｎｄ               ｐｅｒｓｏｎａｌｉｔｙｌｅｓｓ               …               ｌｉｇｈｔ!)                Ａ               ｓｉｍｉｌａｒ               ｇｌｉｔｃｈ               ｏｃｃｕｒｒｅｄ               ａｔ               ｄｅａｔｈ,               ａｓ               ｗｅｌｌ. Ｓｕｃｈ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｎａｔｕｒｅ               ｏｆ               ｒｅａｌｉｔｙ.                                Ｂｕｔ               Ｆｕｌｌ               Ｐｈｙｓｉｃａｌ               Ｍａｎｉｆｅｓｔａｔｉｏｎｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｇｌｉｔｃｈ-ｆｒｅｅ,               ｉｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｒｅｓｐｅｃｔ. Ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｐｒｏｂｌｅｍ               ｗａｓ:               ｍａｎｉｆｅｓｔｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｆｕｌｌ               "ｍａｔｅｒｉａｌ               ｗｏｒｌｄ-ｌｉｋｅ"               ｆｏｒｍ               ｒｅｑｕｉｒｅｄ               ｅｎｏｒｍｏｕｓ               ｃｏｎｃｅｎｔｒａｔｉｏｎ               ａｎｄ               ｆｏｃｕｓ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｒｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｖｏｙａｇｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｎｏｔ               ｂｅ               ｈｅｌｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｌｅｎｇｔｈｙ               ｐｅｒｉｏｄｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｉｍｅ.                (Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｉｎｔｅｎｄｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｃｈａｎｇｅ               ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｔｈａｔ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｄａｙｓ               -               ａｎｄ,               ｓｏｏｎ. Ｈｅｒ               ｒｏｍａｎｔｉｃ               ｆｕｔｕｒｅ               ｄｅｐｅｎｄｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｉｔ.)                                Ｉｎ               ａｎｙ               ｅｖｅｎｔ               -               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｔｈａｔ               ｉｎ               ｏｒｄｅｒ               ｔｏ               ａｐｐｅａｒ               ａｓ               ａ               ｎｉｇｈｔ               ｖｉｓｉｏｎ               ｉｎ               Ｔｏｍｍｙ               Ｍｅｎｄｅｌｓｏｎ'ｓ               ｐａｓｔ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎ               1961               (ｓｈｅ               ｄａｒｅｄ               ｎｏｔ               ｐｕｓｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｎｖｅｌｏｐｅ               ａｎｙ               ｆｕｒｔｈｅｒ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｉｍ,               ａｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ａｇｅ),               ｉｔ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ａｓ               ａ               ＰＰＭ. Ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅｆｏｒｅ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ               ｉｎｔｅｒａｃｔ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｈｅｎ-14-ｙｅａｒ-ｏｌｄ               ｏｎ               ｌａｒｇｅｌｙ               ｈｉｓ               ｔｅｒｍｓ,               ｎｏｔ               ｈｅｒｓ. Ａｎｄ               ｓｈｅ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｎｅｅｄ               ｔｏ               ａｄｄ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｐｓｙｃｈｉｃ               "ｗｉｎｄｏｗ               ｄｒｅｓｓｉｎｇ"               -               ｌｉｋｅ               ｍａｙｂｅ               ａｎ               ｏｌｄ,               ｓｏｏｔｈｉｎｇ               ｔｒｅｅ               ａｎｄ               ａ               ｓｈｉｍｍｅｒｉｎｇ               ｇｒａｓｓｙ               ｆｉｅｌｄ               (ｉｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｔｅｒｍｓ),               ａｓ               ａ               ｂａｃｋｄｒｏｐ;               ａｌｌ               ｉｎ               ａｄｄｉｔｉｏｎ               ｔｏ               ａｔｔｅｍｐｔｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｍｉｎｄ               Ｔｏｍｍｙ               ｏｆ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｆａｖｏｒｉｔｅ               ＴＶ               ｓｔａｒｓ.                                Ｙｅｔ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               Ｔｏｍｍｙ,               ｆｒｏｍ               ｈｉｓ               ｗｉｔｎｅｓｓ               ｅｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｎｔｅｒａｃｔｉｏｎ,               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ               ｍａｎａｇｅ               ｍｏｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｉｔ               ｏｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｏｗｎ               -               ｌｉｋｅ               "ｃｈａｎｇｉｎｇ"               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｉｎｔｏ               ａ               ｍａｎ               (ｎｏｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｄｉｆｆｉｃｕｌｔ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｔｒａｎｓｆｏｒｍａｔｉｏｎ,               ａｓ               ｓｅｘ               ａｎｄ               ｉｔｓ               ｕｒｇｅｓ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｅｘｉｓｔ               ｂｅｙｏｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅａｌｍｓ               ｏｆ               ｆｕｌｌ               ｐｈｙｓｉｃａｌｉｔｙ). Ａｎｄ               ｈｅ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｐｕｌｌ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｏｆｆ               ｎｏｔ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｕｎｃｏｎｓｃｉｏｕｓｌｙ,               ｂｕｔ               ｕｎｋｎｏｗｉｎｇｌｙ. Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ               ｗｈａｔ               ｗｉｔｎｅｓｓｅｓ               ｄｉｄ.                                Ａｌｌ               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ,               ａｓ               ｈｉｓ               ｖｉｓｉｔｉｎｇ               "Ｎｉｇｈｔ               Ｖｉｓｉｏｎ,"               ｗａｓ               ｇｏ               ａｌｏｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｉｍ.                                Ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｆｕｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｉｔ,               ｏｆ               ｃｏｕｒｓｅ. Ｙｏｕ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｈａｖｅ               ａ               ｓｅｎｓｅ               ｏｆ               ｈｕｍｏｒ               ｉｎ               ｏｒｄｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｐｕｌｌ               ｏｆｆ               ａ               ｓｕｃｃｅｓｓｆｕｌ               ＰＰＭ,               ｐａｒｔｉｃｕｌａｒｌｙ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａｎ               ａｄｏｌｅｓｃｅｎｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｓｕｃｈ               ａ               ｇｅｎｔｌｅ,               ｉｎｎｏｃｅｎｔ               ｓｅｔｔｉｎｇ,               ｗｈｏ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｂｅ               ｅａｓｉｌｙ               ａｌａｒｍｅｄ. Ｗｈｙ,               ｓｈｅ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｅｖｅｎ               "ｄｙｅ               ｈｅｒ               ｈａｉｒ               ｒｅｄ;"               ｏｒ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ.                                Ｗｈａｔ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｈａｖｅ               ｍａｄｅ               ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｃｏｎｆｕｓｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｏｕｎｄｉｎｇ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｔｈｅｏｒｉｓｔｓ               ｏｆ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｅｒａ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈａｔ,               ｉｎ               Ｔｏｍ'ｓ               Ｎｏｒｔｈ               Ｃａｒｏｌｉｎａ               ｆｒａｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｒｅｆｅｒｅｎｃｅ,               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ'ｓ               ｖｉｓｉｔ               ｈａｄ               ａｌｒｅａｄｙ               ｏｃｃｕｒｒｅｄ               ｎｅａｒｌｙ               ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｄｅｃａｄｅｓ               ｅａｒｌｉｅｒ!                Ｔｈａｔ               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｈａｄ               ｎｏ               ｓｕｃｈ               ｒｅｃｏｌｌｅｃｔｉｏｎ               ｉｎ               ｈｅｒ               ｃｏｎｓｃｉｏｕｓ               ｆｒａｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｒｅｆｅｒｅｎｃｅ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏｔ               ａ               ｂｏｔｈｅｒ               (ｈｅｒ               ｏｗｎ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｏｒｉｇｉｎ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｐａｒａｌｌｅｌ               ｐｈｙｓｉｃａｌ               ｆｕｔｕｒｅ;               ｓｈｅ               ｈａｄｎ'ｔ               ｙｅｔ               ｔｒａｖｅｌｅｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｆａｒ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎｔｏ               Ｔｏｍｍｙ'ｓ               ｐａｒａｌｌｅｌ               ｐａｓｔ):               ｆｏｒ               ｓｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｏｎｌｙ               "ｎｏｗ,"               ｉｎ               ｆａｃｔ,               ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｔｏ               ｄｏｉｎｇ               ｉｔ.                Ｏｎｅ               ｓｉｍｐｌｙ               ａｃｃｅｐｔｅｄ               ｓｕｃｈ               ｐａｒａｄｏｘｅｓ,               ｓｈｅ               ｃａｌｍｌｙ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔｏｏｄ. Ｏｎｅ               ｈａｄ               ｎｏ               ｃｈｏｉｃｅ,               ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ               -               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｉｔｓｅｌｆ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｐａｒａｄｏｘ.                Ｔｈｅ               ｎａｔｕｒｅ               ｏｆ               ｒｅａｌｉｔｙ               ｗａｓ               ｔｅｅｍｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｐａｒａｄｏｘｅｓ,               ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｔａｕｇｈｔ:               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｗｒｅｎｃｈｅｓ               ｔｏｓｓｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｍｉｎｄ               ｏｎｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｈｙｓｉｃａｌ               ｒｅａｌｍｓ               ｏｎｅ               "ｌｉｖｅｄ               ｉｎ"               ｗｅｒｅｎ'ｔ               ｅｎｔｉｒｅｌｙ               …               ｒｅａｌ.                                Ｏｎｅ               ｐｕｒｐｏｓｅ               ｏｆ               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ'ｓ               ｖｏｙａｇｅ               ｉｎｔｏ               Ｔｏｍ               Ｍｅｎｄｅｌｓｏｎ'ｓ               ｐａｓｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｏ               ｈｅｌｐ               ｎｕｄｇｅ               ｈｉｍ               ｉｎｔｏ               ａ               "ｗａｋｅｕｐ               ｃａｌｌ"               ｉｎ               1990               Ｎｏｒｔｈ               Ｃａｒｏｌｉｎａ.                Ｂｕｔ               ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｓｉｍｕｌｔａｎｅｏｕｓｌｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ               ｐｌａｎｔ               ａ               "ｍａｒｋｅｒ"               ｃｏｎｎｅｃｔｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               ｍｏｍｅｎｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               Ｔｏｍ'ｓ               Ｎｏｒｔｈ               Ｃａｒｏｌｉｎａ               ｐｒｅｓｅｎｔ. Ｔｏ               ｍａｋｅ               ｉｔ               ｗｏｒｋ,               ｓｈｅ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｇｉｖｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｍｅｍｏｒｉｅｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               1961,               ａｎｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｍｏｔｉｖａｔｉｏｎｓ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｃａｌｌ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｉｎ               1990,               ｓｉｍｕｌｔａｎｅｏｕｓ               "ｂｕｍｐｓ."               Ｄｅｔａｉｌｓ,               ｄｅｔａｉｌｓ.                Ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｉｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               1961               ｔｈｅａｔｒｉｃｓ,               ｉｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｔｅｒｍｓ,               ｗａｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｉｍ               ｔｏ               ｅｘｐｅｒｉｅｎｃｅ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ａｂｓｏｌｕｔｅｌｙ               ｕｎｆｏｒｇｅｔｔａｂｌｅ               -               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｃｌｅａｒｌｙ               ａｎｄ               ｐａｓｓｉｏｎａｔｅｌｙ,               ｗｅｌｌ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ａｄｕｌｔｈｏｏｄ.                Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｕｆｆ               ｏｆ               Ａｗｅ               ａｎｄ               Ｗｏｎｄｅｒ,               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｗａｓ               ｃｏｎｓｐｉｃｕｏｕｓｌｙ               ａｂｓｅｎｔ               ｉｎ               43-ｙｅａｒ-ｏｌｄ               Ｔｏｍ               Ｍｅｎｄｅｌｓｏｎ'ｓ               ｌｉｆｅ.                Ａｂｓｅｎｔ               ｎｏｔ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｉｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｌｉｆｅ               -               ｂｕｔ               ｉｎ               ｊｕｓｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ               ｅｌｓｅ'ｓ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｈｉｍ. Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｆｏｒ               Ｔｏｍ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｃａｌｌ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｏｆ               ｔｈａｔ.                Ａｎｄ               ｔｏ               ｔｏｐ               ｉｔ               ａｌｌ               ｏｆｆ:               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｆｏｒ               Ｔｏｍ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｈｅｒ.                                *               *               *               *               *                Ｙｏｕｎｇ               Ｔｏｍｍｙ               Ｍｅｎｄｅｌｓｏｎ               ｉｎｉｔｉａｔｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｅｅｐｌｙ               ｐｓｙｃｈｉｃ               ｅｖｅｎｔ               ｂｙ               ｗａｋｉｎｇ               ｕｐ               ｅａｒｌｙ               ｄｕｒｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｕｍｍｅｒ               ｍｏｒｎｉｎｇ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｏｕｒｔｅｅｎｔｈ               ｙｅａｒ               ｔｈｉｎｋｉｎｇ               (ｈｏｗｅｖｅｒ               ｓｕｂｃｏｎｓｃｉｏｕｓｌｙ)               ｈｏｗ               ｇｒｅａｔ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ａ               ｋｉｄ               -               ｗｈｏ               ｌｉｖｅｄ               ｎｅａｒ               ａ               ｃｌｅａｎ               ｐｕｂｌｉｃ               ｂｅａｃｈ,               ａｎｄ               ｇｏｔ               ｔｏ               ｗａｔｃｈ               ｇｒｅａｔ               ＴＶ               ｓｈｏｗｓ               ｌｉｋｅ               Ｔｈｅ               Ｒｉｆｌｅｍａｎ               ａｎｄ               Ｍａｖｅｒｉｃｋ. Ｈｅ               ｏｆｔｅｎ               ｈｅａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｈｅｍｅｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｓｈｏｗｓ               -               ｅｓｐｅｃｉａｌｌｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｔｔｅｒ               -               ｒｅｐｌａｙｅｄ               ｉｎｓｉｄｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｈｅａｄ.                Ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｉｓ               ｈｏｗ               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               Ｈｕｎｔ               ｔｒａｎｓｆｏｒｍｅｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               Ｂｒｅｔ               Ｍａｖｅｒｉｃｋ.                Ｒｅｐｌｅｔｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｒｅｄ-ｔｉｎｔｅｄ               ｂｌｏｎｄｅ               ｈａｉｒ.                                Ｓｈｅ               "ｈｅａｒｄ"               ｔｈｅ               ｔｕｎｅ               Ｔｏｍｍｙ               ｗａｓ               ｓｉｎｇｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｈｅａｄ:               "…Ｗｈｏ               ｉｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｔａｌｌ,               ｄａｒｋ               ｓｔｒａｎ-ｇｅｒ               ｔｈｅｒｅ? -               Ｍａ-ｖｅｒ-ｉｃｋ               ｉｓ               ｈｉｓ               ｎａｍｅ…"                Ｆｉｇｕｒａｔｉｖｅｌｙ               ｓｐｅａｋｉｎｇ,               ｓｈｅ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｐｌａｙｆｕｌｌｙ               "ｆｌｉｐｐｅｄ               ｏｎ"               ｈｅｒ               ＰＰＭ'ｓ               "ｐｓｙｃｈｉｃ               ｌｉｇｈｔｓ"               -               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｉｌｌｕｍｉｎａｔｅｄ               ｈｅｒ,               ｔｈｅ               ｔｒｅｅ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｈｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｉｍｍｅｒｉｎｇ               ｇｒａｓｓｙ               ｆｉｅｌｄｓ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｔｈａｔ.                Ｔｏｍｍｙ               Ｍｅｎｄｅｌｓｏｎ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｄｉｄ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｌａｔｅｒ               ｐｒｏｖｅ               ｔｏ               ａｓｔｏｎｉｓｈ               ｈｉｍ:                Ｈｅ               ｓａｔ               ｕｐ               ｏｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｅｌｂｏｗｓ               ｉｎ               ｂｅｄ;               ａｎｄ               ｗａｔｃｈｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｍａｇｅｓ               ｆｏｒｍ!                                Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               Ｈｕｎｔ,               ｗｈｏ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｔｏｍ               Ｍｅｎｄｅｌｓｏｎ               ｗａｓ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｏｎｅ               ｄａｙ               ｂｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｏｖｅ               ｏｆ               ｈｅｒ               ｌｉｆｅ               (ｓｏｍｅｗｈｅｒｅ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｏａｄ               ｋｎｏｗｎ               ａｓ               ｔｉｍｅ),               ｎｏｗ               ｆｌｏａｔｅｄ               ａｂｏｖｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｎｄ               ｏｆ               Ｔｏｍｍｙ               Ｍｅｎｄｅｌｓｏｎ'ｓ               ｂｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｒｋ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｂｅｄｒｏｏｍ               ａｌｏｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｊｏｉｎｔｌｙ-ｃｏｎｊｕｒｅｄ               ｓｃｅｎａｒｉｏ. Ｗｈｅｎ               ｓｈｅ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ａｔ               ｈｉｍ,               ｓｈｅ               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｂｒｏｋｅ               ｏｕｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｉｇｇｌｅｓ!                Ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｇａｐｉｎｇ               ｕｐ               ａｔ               ｈｅｒ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｈｉｓ               ｂｅｄ!                (Ｈｅ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｓｏ               ｃｕｔｅ               -               ａｎｄ               ｓｏ               ｉｎｎｏｃｅｎｔｌｙ               …               ｅｎｒａｐｔｕｒｅｄ!)                Ｕｓｉｎｇ               Ｔｏｍｍｙ'ｓ               ｈｅｌｐ,               ｔｈｅｎ               -               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               "ｓｍｉｌｅｄ"               ｂａｃｋ               ａｔ               ｈｉｍ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｅｒ               ｅｙｅｓ.                Ｈｅ               "ｈｅｌｐｅｄ"               ｈｅｒ,               ｂｙ               ｈｏｐｉｎｇ               ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｓｍｉｌｅ               ａｔ               ｈｉｍ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｅｒ               ｅｙｅｓ.                                Ａｎｄ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｓｉｌｅｎｔ               ｂｕｒｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｌｏｖｅ,               ｓｈｅ               ｃｏｍｍｕｎｉｃａｔｅｄ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｍｅｓｓａｇｅ               ｔｏ               ｈｅｒ               ｆｕｔｕｒｅ               ｂｅｌｏｖｅｄ:                                ............…ＹＯＵ               ＯＵＧＨＴ               ＴＯ               ＳＥＥ               ＴＨＥ               ＥＸＰＲＥＳＳＩＯＮ               ＯＮ               ＹＯＵＲ               ＦＡＣＥ!                                Ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ               ｔｈｅｒｅａｆｔｅｒ,               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｐｓｙｃｈｉｃａｌｌｙ               ｓｈａｔｔｅｒｅｄ               ｈｅｒ               "Ｂｒｅｔ               ｍａｖｅｒｉｃｋ"               ａｌｔｅｒ               ｅｇｏ               (ａｎｄ               ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ａｐｐｅａｒｅｄ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｈｅｒ)               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｉｎｙ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ａｉｒｂｏｒｎｅ               ｐｕｚｚｌｅ               ｐｉｅｃｅｓ.                Ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ,               ｔｈｅｎ,               ｄｉｓｓｉｐａｔｅｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇｎｅｓｓ.                                Ｙｏｕｎｇ               Ｔｏｍｍｙ               Ｍｅｎｄｅｌｓｏｎ               ｗａｓ               ｌｅｆｔ               ａｌｏｎｅ,               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｒｋ,               ｐｒｏｐｐｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｏｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｅｌｂｏｗｓ.                                *               *               *               *               *                Ａｓ               43-ｙｅａｒ-ｏｌｄ               Ｔｏｍ               ｄｒｏｖｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｃａｒ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｈｉｓ               Ｔｗｅｌｖｅ               Ｓｔｅｐ               ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               1990               Ｒａｌｅｉｇｈ,               Ｎｏｒｔｈ               Ｃａｒｏｌｉｎａ,               ｈｅ               ｈａｄ               ａ               ｓｕｄｄｅｎ,               ｓｈａｒｐ               ｒｅｃｏｌｌｅｃｔｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｓｔｒａｎｇｅ               ｅｖｅｎｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｈｉｓ               ｃｈｉｌｄｈｏｏｄ:               ｔｈｅ               ｐｓｅｕｄｏ-ｉｍａｇｅ               ｏｆ               ＴＶ               ｃｏｗｂｏｙ               Ｂｒｅｔ               Ｍａｖｅｒｉｃｋ               ｉｎｅｘｐｌｉｃａｂｌｙ               ａｐｐｅａｒｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｒｋ               ａｂｏｖｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｂｅｄ,               ｕｔｉｌｉｚｉｎｇ               ｉｔｓ               ｏｗｎ               "ｌｉｇｈｔ;"               ａｎｄ               ｈｏｖｅｒｉｎｇ!                Ｔｈｅｎ:               Ｊｕｓｔ               ａｓ               ａｂｒｕｐｔｌｙ               ａｎｄ               ｕｎｅｘｐｅｃｔｅｄｌｙ,               ｈｅ               ｆｌａｓｈｅｄ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｏ               ａｎ               ｅｎｃｏｕｎｔｅｒ               ｈｅ               ｈａｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈａｔ               ｐｅｃｕｌｉａｒ               (ｂｕｔ               ｌｏｖｅｌｙ)               ｇｉｒｌ               ｏｕｔｓｉｄｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｄｏｒｍｉｔｏｒｙ,               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎ               Ｂａｎｇｏｒ,               Ｍａｉｎｅ,               ｓｏｍｅ               ｎｉｎｅ               ｙｅａｒｓ               ａｇｏ,               ｗｈｏ               …                                Ａｎｄ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｓｕｄｄｅｎ               ｇｒａｓｐ               ｏｆ               ｙｅｔ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｄｉｓｔａｎｔ               ｒｅｃｏｌｌｅｃｔｉｏｎ               -               Ｔｏｍ               ｐｕｌｌｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｃａｒ               ｈａｒｓｈｌｙ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｒａｆｆｉｃ,               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               Ｃａｐｉｔｏｌ               Ｂｏｕｌｅｖａｒｄ;               ａｎｄ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｒｏａｄ               ｃｏｎｓｔｒｕｃｔｉｏｎ               ｂａｒｒｉｅｒ.                                Ｈｅ               ｔｕｒｎｅｄ               ｏｆｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｉｇｎｉｔｉｏｎ. Ｄｕｓｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｏ-ｌｏｎｇｅｒ-ｓｋｉｄｄｉｎｇ               ｔｉｒｅｓ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｐａｓｓ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｒｕｎｋ               ａｎｄ               ｒｏｏｆ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｃａｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｄｒｉｆｔｅｄ               ａｗａｙ               ｉｎｔｏ               ａ               ｓｕｎｋｅｎ               ｗｏｒｋ               ｚｏｎｅ               ｂｅｙｏｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｎｃｒｅｔｅ               ｂａｒｒｉｅｒ.                                Ｓｈｅ               ｅｘｉｓｔｅｄ! Ｉｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｉｍａｇｉｎａｔｉｏｎ;               ｏｒ               ｄｒｕｎｋｅｎ               ｔｒｅｍｏｒｓ!                                Ｔｈｅ               ｇｉｒｌ:               ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ａｔ               Ｄｕｒｔｙ               Ｎｅｌｌｉｅ'ｓ               ｌｏｕｎｇｅ               ａｄｊａｃｅｎｔ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               Ｉｎｔｒａｃｏａｓｔａｌ               Ｗａｔｅｒｗａｙ               ｉｎ               Ｆｏｒｔ               Ｌａｕｄｅｒｄａｌｅ,               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｔｏｍ               ｇｏｔ               ｄｒｕｎｋ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｄ-70ｓ               …               ａｆｔｅｒ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ａｗｆｕｌ               ｄａｙ               ｏｆ               ｃａｒｐｅｔ               ｃｌｅａｎｉｎｇ!                ..........-               Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｓａｍｅ               ｇｉｒｌ!                ....................(               -               Ｓｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ＲＥＡＬ!!)                ..........-               Ｔｈｅ               ｓａｍｅ               ｇｉｒｌ               ａｓ               ＴＨＥ               ＯＮＥ               ＨＥ               ＭＥＴ               ＩＮ               ＭＡＩＮＥ!!                                ....................Ｗｈａｔ               ｉｎ               ｈｅｌｌ               …               ＨＡＳ               ＢＥＥＮ               ＧＯＩＮＧ               ＯＮ               ＩＮ               ＭＹ               ＬＩＦＥ?! Ｔｏｍ               ｓｈｕｄｄｅｒｅｄ.                                *               *               *               *               *                Ｏｎｃｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｏａｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｉｎｇ               ｏｎ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ               ｆｌｏｏｄｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｌｉｔａｎｙ               ｏｆ               ｆｏｒｇｏｔｔｅｎ               ｍｅｍｏｒｉｅｓ:               ｏｆ               ｄｒｅａｍｓ               ｄａｔｉｎｇ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｇｈ               ｓｃｈｏｏｌ               ａｎｄ               ｃｏｌｌｅｇｅ;               ｏｆ               ｂａｓｅｂａｌｌ               ｇａｍｅｓ               ｐｌａｙｅｄ               ａｓ               ａ               ｙｏｕｔｈ;               ｏｆ               ａｃｔｉｖｉｔｉｅｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｏｌｄ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｅａｃｈｅｓ;               ｏｆ               ａ               ｄｅａｄｌｙ               ｉｌｌｎｅｓｓ,               ｍｉｒａｃｕｌｏｕｓｌｙ               ｃｕｒｅｄ;               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｔｏｕｒ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ｎａｖｙ;               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｅａｔｈ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ;               ｏｆ               ｐｓｙｃｈｉｃ               ｆｌａｓｈｅｓ;               ｏｆ               …               ｐｒｏｐｈｅｃｉｅｓ!                Ａｎｄ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｔｉｍｅ               -               Ｔｏｍ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｍｅｍｏｒｉｅｓ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｆｒｉｅｄ               ｄｕｅ               ｔｏ               ｏｖｅｒｚｅａｌｏｕｓ               ａｌｃｏｈｏｌ               ｃｏｎｓｕｍｐｔｉｏｎ. Ｓｏ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈａｔ               ｐｌａｕｓｉｂｌｅ               ｅｘｐｌａｎａｔｉｏｎ!                Ｔｈｉｎｋ               ａｇａｉｎ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ:               Ｙｏｕｒ               ｍｅｍｏｒｙ               ｃａｐａｃｉｔｙ               ｉｓ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｆｉｎｅ. Ａｎｄ               ｉｆ               ｔｈａｔ'ｓ               ｓｏ               …               ｔｈｅｎ               ｗｈａｔ               ｃａｕｓｅｄ               ｙｏｕ               ｔｏ               ｆｏｒｇｅｔ               ｓｏ               ｍｕｃｈ?                                *               *               *               *               *                Ａｓ               Ｔｏｍ               ｐｕｌｌｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｃａｒ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｈｉｎ               ｄｒｉｖｅｗａｙ               ｉｎ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ,               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               Ｍｏｒｇａｎ               ｄａｓｈｅｄ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               ｉｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｄｏｏｒｓｔｅｐ,               ｗａｖｅｄ               ｆｒａｎｔｉｃａｌｌｙ,               ａｎｄ               ｆｏｌｌｏｗｅｄ               ｉｔ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｉｔ               ｃａｍｅ               ｔｏ               ａ               ｓｔｏｐ.                "Ｔｏｍ..! Ｔｏｍ!!"               ｈｅ               ｃｒｉｅｄ               ｏｕｔ.                "Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ? Ｗｈａｔ               ｏｎ               ｅａｒｔｈ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｓａｉｄ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｈｉｓ               ｏｐｅｎ               ｗｉｎｄｏｗ. "Ｗｈａｔ'ｓ               ｗｒｏｎｇ?"                "Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ               …               Ｈｅ'ｓ               ｔａｋｅｎ               Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ               ｓｏｍｅｗｈｅｒｅ               -               ａｎｄ               ｈｅ'ｓ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｍ!"                Ｔｏｍ               ｃｌｉｍｂｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｃａｒ               ａｎｄ               ｒｏｌｌｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｗｉｎｄｏｗ               ａｓ               ｈｅ               ｓｔａｒｅｄ               ａｔ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ,               ｗｈｏｓｅ               ｆｅａｔｕｒｅｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｔａｕｔ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｄｒｅａｄ.                "Ｗｈａｔ               ｄｏ               ｙｏｕ               ｍｅａｎ               -               ｈｅ'ｓ               ｔａｋｅｎ               Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ?"                Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ               ｖｏｉｃｅ               ｓｈｏｏｋ               ａｓ               ｈｅ               ｌｅｔ               ｏｕｔ               ａ               ｔｅｎｓｅ               ｂｒｅａｔｈ. Ｔｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ｐｏｉｎｔｅｄ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ'ｓ               ｙａｒｄ               -               ｗｈｅｒｅ               Ｔｏｍ               ｆａｉｌｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｅ               ａｎｙｏｎｅ               ｏｕｔｓｉｄｅ;               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｒｕｃｋ               ｗａｓ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｒｉｖｅｗａｙ.                "Ｈｅ               ｃａｍｅ               ｏｕｔ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｍｉｎｕｔｅｓ               ａｇｏ               ａｎｄ               ｗａｌｋｅｄ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｐｌａｃｅ,"               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｓａｉｄ               ｈｕｒｒｉｅｄｌｙ. "Ｈｅ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｍｅ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｔａｋｅ               ｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｇａｒｂａｇｅ. Ｙｏｕ               ｋｎｏｗ;               ｔｒａｓｈ               ｔａｌｋ. Ｔｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ｇｒｉｎｎｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｔｕｒｎｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｂａｃｋ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｈｅ               ｌｉｋｅｓ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               -               ａｎｄ               ｈｅ               ｌｅｆｔ."                ...Ｔｒａｓｈ               ｔａｌｋ. Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｗａｓ               ｓｏ               ｕｐｓｅｔ               ｈｅ               ｆａｉｌｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｃｏｇｎｉｚｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｕｎｉｎｔｅｎｔｉｏｎａｌ               ｐｕｎ. Ｂｕｔ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｈａｄ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｒｅａｓｏｎ               ｔｏ               ｆｅａｒ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｉｓ               ｄｏｇ.                Ｔｏｍ               ｇｌａｎｃｅｄ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｗｏ               ｇａｒｂａｇｅ               ｃａｎｓ               ｓｉｔｔｉｎｇ               ｏｕｔ               ｉｎ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｏｆ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ;               ｈｅ               ｎｏｔｉｃｅｄ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｉｄｓ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｋｎｏｃｋｅｄ               ｏｆｆ. Ｎｅａｒｂｙ,               ｓｏｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｒａｓｈ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｃｏｎｔａｉｎｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｃａｎ               ｗａｓ               ｓｔｒｅｗｎ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｙａｒｄ.                Ｔｈｅｎ,               ｇａｚｉｎｇ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｓａｍｅ               ｌｏｃａｔｉｏｎ               ｉｎ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ'ｓ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｏｂｓｅｒｖｅｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｂｏｔｈ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｇａｒｂａｇｅ               ｃａｎ               ｌｉｄｓ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｋｎｏｃｋｅｄ               ｏｆｆ,               ａｓ               ｗｅｌｌ               (ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｃａｎｓ,               ｉｎ               ｆａｃｔ,               ｗａｓ               ｏｎ               ｉｔｓ               ｓｉｄｅ). Ａｎｄ               ｅｖｅｎ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｔｒａｓｈ               ｗａｓ               ｆｌｕｔｔｅｒｉｎｇ               ｈｅｒｅ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｉｇ               ｒｅｄｎｅｃｋ'ｓ               ｐｒｏｐｅｒｔｙ.                Ｆｒｏｍ               ｅｘｐｅｒｉｅｎｃｅ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｒｅａｌｉｚｅｄ               Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｃａｎｓ,               ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ｗｈａｔｅｖｅｒ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｄｏｇｓ               ｐｕｒｓｕｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｒａｓｈ               ｃａｎｓ.                "Ｔｏｍ               -               ｃｏｍｅ               ｏｎ,               ｍａｎ!"               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｐｌｅａｄｅｄ,               ｎｏｗ               ｓｈａｋｉｎｇ. "Ｉ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｔｉｍｅ,               ｈｅ'ｓ-"                ＰＯＷ!! ｃａｍｅ               ａ               ｌｏｕｄ               ｃａｎｎｏｎ-ｌｉｋｅ               ｒｅｐｏｒｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｆａｒ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ'ｓ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ,               ｃａｕｓｉｎｇ               ｂｏｔｈ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ａｎｄ               Ｔｏｍ               ｔｏ               ｆｌｉｎｃｈ.                                ＰＯＷ!! ｔｈｅ               ｎｏｉｓｅ               ｒｅｐｅａｔｅｄ               ａｇａｉｎ.                                Ｔｈｅｎ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｓｉｌｅｎｃｅ.                Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｎｏ               ｓｉｇｎ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｌｌｙ               (ｏｒ               Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ)               ａｎｙｗｈｅｒｅ.                                "Ｏｈ,               Ｔｏｍ!"               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｃｒｉｅｄ,               ｈｉｓ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｗａｔｅｒｉｎｇ.                                Ｔｈｅｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ               ａｐｐｅａｒｅｄ. Ｈｅ               ｓｔｒｕｔｔｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｆａｒ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ,               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｗａｓ               ａｄｊａｃｅｎｔ               ｔｏ               ａｎ               ｅｍｐｔｙ               ｆｉｅｌｄ. Ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｃａｒｒｙｉｎｇ               ａ               ｌａｒｇｅ,               ｌｉｍｐ               ａｎｉｍａｌ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｎａｐｅ               ｏｆ               ｉｔｓ               ｎｅｃｋ.                Ｔｈａｔ               ａｎｉｍａｌ,               ｗｈｏｓｅ               ｆｕｒ               ｗａｓ               ｓｏａｋｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｂｌｏｏｄ,               ｗａｓ               ｄｅａｄ.                Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ.                                Ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｗａｌｋｅｄ               ｄｉｒｅｃｔｌｙ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ               ｏｐｅｎ               ｔｒａｓｈ               ｃａｎ,               ｈｏｌｄｉｎｇ               Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ'ｓ               ｂｏｄｙ               ｉｎ               ｏｎｅ               ｈａｎｄ               ｈｉｇｈ               ａｂｏｖｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｌａｗｎ.                                "Ｙｏｕ               Ｇｏｄ-ｄａｍｎｅｄ               ａｓｓｈｏｌｅ!"               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｓｈｒｉｅｋｅｄ,               ｓｔａｒｔｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｄａｒｔ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｌｌｙ               -               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ｓｕｄｄｅｎｌｙ               ｓａｎｋ               ｂａｃｋ,               ａｓ               ｉｆ               ｕｎｓｕｒｅ.                Ｔｏｍ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｓｅｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｕｙ'ｓ               ｇｕｎ               (ｐｒｏｂａｂｌｙ               ａ               ｓｈｏｔｇｕｎ)               ａｎｙｗｈｅｒｅ               ｉｎ               ｓｉｇｈｔ. Ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｄｎｅｃｋ,               ｏｕｔ               ｈｅｒｅ               ａｎｙｗａｙ,               ａｐｐｅａｒｅｄ               ｕｎａｒｍｅｄ.                Ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ               ａｐｐｒｏａｃｈｅｄ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ               ｏｐｅｎ               ｃａｎ               -               ｍａｙｂｅ               30               ｙａｒｄｓ               ａｗａｙ               ｎｏｗ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｔｏｍ               ａｎｄ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               -               ｈｅ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｔｏ               ｇｒｉｎ;               ａｎｄ               ｐａｕｓｅｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ               ｆｏｒ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｔｏ               ｍａｋｅ               ｅｙｅ               ｃｏｎｔａｃｔ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｉｍ.                Ｂｒｉｅｆｌｙ,               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｄｉｄ. Ｔｈｅｎ               Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ'ｓ               ｋｉｌｌｅｒ               ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｍａｒｃｈ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ               ｏｐｅｎ               ｃａｎ,               ａ               ｂｉｇ               ｔｒａｓｈ               ｃｏｎｔａｉｎｅｒ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｗｈｅｅｌｓ.                Ｏｎｃｅ               ｈｅ               ａｒｒｉｖｅｄ,               ｈｅ               ｒａｉｓｅｄ               Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ'ｓ               ｂｏｄｙ               ｕｐ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｐｅｎｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｉｓ               ｂｅｅｆｙ               ｐｒｏ-ｗｒｅｓｔｌｅｒ-ｌｉｋｅ               ａｒｍｓ               -               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｌｅｔ               ｉｔ               ｄｒｏｐ.                ...Ｔｈｗｍｐ. Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ'ｓ               ｌｉｍｐ               ｒｅｍａｉｎｓ               ｆｌｏｐｐｅｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｇａｒｂａｇｅ               ｃａｎ,               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｓｉｇｈｔ. Ｅｘｃｅｐｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｐ               ｏｆ               ｏｎｅ               ｒｅａｒ               ｐａｗ.                Ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｌｌｙ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｈｉｓ               ｅｙｅｓ,               ｍｅａｎｗｈｉｌｅ,               ｏｆｆ               ｏｆ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ               -               ａｔ               ａｎｙ               ｔｉｍｅ. Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｃｏｌｄ,               ｃａｌｃｕｌａｔｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｖｉｃｉｏｕｓ               ｐｅｒｆｏｒｍａｎｃｅ.                Ａｌｌ               ｔｈａｔ               ｒｅｍａｉｎｅｄ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｌｌｙ'ｓ               ｐｕｎｃｈ               ｌｉｎｅ.                                "Ｇｕｅｓｓ               ｈｅ               ｗｏｎ'ｔ               ｂｅ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ａｎｙｂｏｄｙ               ｅｌｓｅ'ｓ               ｇａｒｂａｇｅ               ａｇａｉｎ               -               ｗｉｌｌ               ｈｅ,"               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ               ｈｙｐｏｔｈｅｓｉｚｅｄ,               ａｓ               ｈｉｓ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｐａｓｓｅｄ               ｂａｃｋ               ａｎｄ               ｆｏｒｔｈ               ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ               ａｎｄ               Ｔｏｍ'ｓ.                                Ｔｈｅｎ,               ｐｒｅｄｉｃｔａｂｌｙ               -               ｈｅ               ｃａｓｕａｌｌｙ               ｔｕｒｎｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｔｏ               ｗａｌｋ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ.                Ｂｙ               ｎｏｗ,               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｎｅｉｇｈｂｏｒｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｒｅｅｔ               ｈａｄ               ｗａｌｋｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｈｏｕｓｅｓ               ｔｏ               ｗａｔｃｈ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｓｃｅｎｅ               ｃｏｎｃｌｕｄｅ               -               ｄｒａｗｎ               ｔｈｅｒｅ,               ｎｏ               ｄｏｕｂｔ,               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｏｕｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｔｗｏ-ｒｏｕｎｄｓ-ｗｏｒｔｈ               ｏｆ               ｆｉｒｅｄ               ｓｃａｔｔｅｒｓｈｏｔ.                                Ａ               ｓｑｕｅａｌ               ｏｆ               ｒａｇｅ               ｓｈｏｔ               ｏｕｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ               ｔｈｒｏａｔ               -               ａｎｄ               ｈｅ               ｔｏｒｅ               ｏｆｆ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｗａｇｇｅｒｉｎｇ,               ｓｌａｕｇｈｔｅｒｉｎｇ               ｍｏｎｓｔｅｒ.                "Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ!"               Ｔｏｍ               ｃａｌｌｅｄ               ｏｕｔ,               ａｆｒａｉｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄ'ｓ               ｓａｆｅｔｙ.                Ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｉｇｈｂｏｒｓ               ｓａｉｄ               ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ. Ｔｈｅｙ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｗａｔｃｈｅｄ. Ｌｉｋｅ               Ｔｏｍ.                                Ｏｎｃｅ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｐｕｌｌｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈｉｎ               ｌｅａｐｉｎｇ               ｄｉｓｔａｎｃｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ'ｓ               ｂｒｏａｄ               ｂａｃｋ,               ｈｅ               ａｔｔｅｍｐｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｊｕｍｐ               ｕｐ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｒｇｅ               ｍａｎ'ｓ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒｓ. Ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｌｌｙ               ｓｉｍｐｌｙ               ｍｏｖｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｃｈｕｎｋｙ               ｌｅｆｔ               ａｒｍ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｈｉｍ,               ａｎｄ               ｓｗａｔｔｅｄ,               ａｓ               ｉｆ               ｐｏｐｐｉｎｇ               ａｎ               ａｎｎｏｙｉｎｇ               ｂｅｅ. Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｆｅｌｌ               ｂａｃｋ.                "Ｇｅｔ               ｌｏｓｔ,               ｙａ'               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｐｉｓｓ               ａｎｔ!"               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ               ｇｒｕｎｔｅｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ. Ｈｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｂｅ               ｂｏｔｈｅｒｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｔｕｒｎ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ.                Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｃｏｌｌａｐｓｅｄ               ｉｎ               ａｎ               ｉｍｐｏｔｅｎｔ               ｈｅａｐ,               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｕｎｍｏｗｅｄ               ｇｒａｓｓ               ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｙａｒｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｅｈｅｍｏｔｈ'ｓ               -               ｎｏｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｏｎｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｔｅｌｌ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｏｎｅ               ｓｃｒａｇｇｌｙ               ｌａｗｎ               ｅｎｄｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｂｅｇａｎ.                "Ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｊａｉｌ,               ｓｈｉｔｈｏｏｋ!!"               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ               ｖｏｉｃｅ               ｗａｉｌｅｄ,               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｏｒｍｅｒ               ｓｉｍｐｌｙ               ｏｐｅｎｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｄｏｏｒ               -               ａｎｄ               ｓｔｅｐｐｅｄ               ｉｎｓｉｄｅ.                Ｔｏｍ               ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｔｏ               ｒｕｎ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｗａｓ               ａｌｒｅａｄｙ               ｕｐ               ｏｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｅｅｔ,               ｌｉｆｔｉｎｇ               ｈｉｓ               ｆａｌｌｅｎ               ｇａｒｂａｇｅ               ｃａｎ               ｌｉｄ               ｕｐ               ｏｆｆ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｒａｓｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｓｔｕｍｂｌｉｎｇ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｐｌａｃｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｉｄ               ｂａｃｋ               ｏ               ｎ…                Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｇａｚｅｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｐｅｎｉｎｇ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｇａｒｂａｇｅ               ｃａｎ               ｃｏｎｔａｉｎｉｎｇ               ｈｉｓ               ｐｅｔ               ｄｏｇ'ｓ               ｂｏｄｙ               -               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｆｅｌｌ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ｋｎｅｅｓ,               ｂｒｏｋｅｎ-ｈｅａｒｔｅｄ.                                Ａｂｓｅｎｔｌｙ,               ｈｅ               ｃｌｕｍｓｉｌｙ               ｒｅｐｌａｃｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｉｄ               ｏｎ               ｔｏｐ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｃａｎ               ａｓ               ｔｅａｒｓ               ｐｏｕｒｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｆａｃｅ.                "Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ!!"               ｈｅ               ｓｏｂｂｅｄ. "Ｏｈ,               ｍｙ               Ｇｏｄ               -               ｍｙ               Ｇｏｄ!!"                                *               *               *               *               *                Ｈｏｕｒｓ               ｌａｔｅｒ               -               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｄｒｉｖｅｎ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｔｏ               ａ               ｎｅａｒｂｙ               ｂｒａｎｃｈ               ｏｆｆｉｃｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｗａｋｅ               Ｃｏｕｎｔｙ               Ｓｈｅｒｉｆｆ'ｓ               Ｄｅｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ               ｔｏ               ｆｉｌｅ               ｃｈａｒｇｅｓ               ａｇａｉｎｓｔ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ               (ｏｎｅ               Ｒａｎｄａｌｌ               Ｋ. Ｔｈｏｍｓｏｎ)               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｕｒｄｅｒ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｌｏｖｉｎｇ               ｐｅｔ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎｅｄ               ｈｉｍ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ               (Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｏｗｎ               ａ               ｃａｒ;               ｎｏｔ               ａ               ｗｏｒｋｉｎｇ               ｏｎｅ,               ａｎｙｗａｙ)               -               Ｔｏｍ               ｗａｓ               ｆｌａｔ-ｏｕｔ               ｄｒａｉｎｅｄ. Ｅｘｈａｕｓｔｅｄ.                Ｔｈｅ               ｄａｙ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｉｎｃｒｅｄｉｂｌｅ               ｓｏ               ｆａｒ. Ａｎｄ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｙｅｔ.                Ａ               ｎｅｉｇｈｂｏｒ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｌｏｃｋ               ｌｏａｎｅｄ               Ｔｏｍ               ａ               ｓｈｏｖｅｌ,               ａｎｄ               Ｔｏｍ               ｈｅａｄｅｄ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｏｄｓ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｒｉｇｈｔ               ｆｉｅｌｄ               ｆｅｎｃｅ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｌｌｆｉｅｌｄ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｒｅｅｔ,               ｗｈｅｒｅ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ａｎｄ               Ｔｏｍ               ｏｆｔｅｎ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｔｕｒｎｓ               ｓｈａｇｇｉｎｇ               ｆｌｉｅｓ               -               ｗｈｉｌｅ               Ｍｅｌｖｉｎ               ｏｎｃｅ               ｐｌａｙｆｕｌｌｙ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｏｎ.                                Ｔｏｍ               ｒｅｃｏｍｍｅｎｄｅｄ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｇｅｔ               ａ               ｃｏｕｐｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｌａｒｇｅ               ｔｒａｓｈ               ｂａｇｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｉｅｓ               ｔｏ               ｐｕｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｐｅｔ'ｓ               ｂｏｄｙ               ｉｎ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｏ               ｄｏｕｂｌｅ-ｂａｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｍａｉｎｓ. Ｂｕｔ               ａｆｔｅｒ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｂｒｏｕｇｈｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｇｓ               ｏｕｔｓｉｄｅ,               ｉｔ               ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ               ｂｅｃａｍｅ               ｏｂｖｉｏｕｓ               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｉｎ               ｎｏ               ｅｍｏｔｉｏｎａｌ               ｓｈａｐｅ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｌａｎｃｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｋ               ａｌｏｎｅ. Ｓｏ,               ｗｈｉｌｅ               Ｔｏｍ               ｈｅｌｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｏｕｂｌｅｄ-ｕｐ               ｂａｇｓ               ｏｐｅｎ,               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ,               ｔｕｒｎｉｎｇ               ｈｉｓ               ｓｔｒａｉｎｅｄ               ｆａｃｅ               ａｗａｙ,               ｕｐｅｎｄｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｃａｎ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｅａｄ               ｂｏｄｙ               ｓｌｉｄ               ｄｏｗｎ. Ｔｏｍ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｃｌｏｓｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｇｓ               ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ               ａｎｄ               ｔｉｅｄ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｕｐ               ｔｏ               ｅｎｃｌｏｓｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｉｆｆｅｎｉｎｇ               (ａｎｄ               ａｌｒｅａｄｙ               ｓｍｅｌｌｙ)               ｒｅｍａｉｎｓ.                Ｔｈｅｎ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｉｎｓｉｓｔｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｃａｒｒｙｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｇｇｅｄ               ｒｅｍａｉｎｓ               ｗｈｉｌｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｗｏ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｗａｌｋｅｄ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｗｏ-ｆｏｏｔ-ｄｅｅｐ               ｇｒａｖｅ               Ｔｏｍ               ｈａｄ               ｄｕｇ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｄｇｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｏｄｓ               ｗｅｌｌ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂａｌｌｆｉｅｌｄ               ｆｅｎｃｅｓ. Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｃａｒｅｆｕｌｌｙ               ｌａｉｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｐｅｔ'ｓ               ｂｏｄｙ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｏｌｅ,               ａｎｄ               Ｔｏｍ               ｉｍｍｅｄｉａｔｅｌｙ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｔｏ               ｂｕｒｙ               ｉｔ               ｂｙ               ｈｕｒｒｉｅｄｌｙ               ｓｈｏｖｅｌｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｉｒｔ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｄｕｇ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｉｔ               ｗｉｔｈｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｓｔ               ｈｏｕｒ.                Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｔｈａｎｋｅｄ               ｈｉｍ               ｆｏｒ               ｄｉｇｇｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｒａｖｅ,               ａｎｄ               Ｔｏｍ               ｓｑｕｅｅｚｅｄ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ'ｓ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ               ｏｎｃｅ               ｔｅｎｄｅｒｌｙ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｗｏ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｅｓｈ               ｍｏｕｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｄｉｒｔ. Ｔｈｅｙ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｓｉｌｅｎｔｌｙ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｒｅｓｐｅｃｔｉｖｅ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔｓ. Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｗａｖｅｄ               ｔｈａｎｋｓ               ｔｏ               Ｔｏｍ               ａｓ               ｈｅ               ｅｎｔｅｒｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｄｏｏｒ,               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｈｅ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｔｏ               ｃｒｙ               ｏｎｃｅ               ａｇａｉｎ. Ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｒａｖｅｓｉｔｅ,               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏｌｄ               Ｔｏｍ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｐｌａｎｎｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｃａｌｌ               ｈｉｓ               ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ               ｌｉｖｉｎｇ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｔｏｗｎ,               ａｎｄ               ｆｏｒ               Ｔｏｍ               ｎｏｔ               ｔｏ               ｗｏｒｒｙ               -               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｂｅ               ｏｋａｙ.                Ｏｎｃｅ               ａｌｏｎｅ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｇｌａｎｃｅｄ               ｔｗｏ               ｄｏｏｒｓ               ｄｏｗｎ. Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏ               ｓｉｇｎ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ. Ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｐｓ               ｓａｉｄ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｆｉｌｅ               ｃｈａｒｇｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｓｏｒｔ,               ａｎｄ               ｐａｙ               ａ               ｖｉｓｉｔ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｏｎ-ｏｆ-ａ-ｂｉｔｃｈ.                                Ｓｏ               ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ               -               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓ               ｏｖｅｒ.                                Ｔｏｍ               ｒｕｍｍａｇｅｄ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｈｉｓ               ｐｏｃｋｅｔｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｉｓ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｄｏｏｒ               ｋｅｙ,               ａｎｄ               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ｉｔ. Ｂｕｔ               ｎｏｔ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｔｕｒｎｉｎｇ               ｂｏｔｈ               ｐａｎｔｓ               ｐｏｃｋｅｔｓ               ｉｎｓｉｄｅ               ｏｕｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｆｆｏｒｔ. Ｈｅ               ｔｅｍｐｏｒａｒｉｌｙ               ｐｌａｃｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｏｖｅｌ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｒｕｂｓ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ｄｏｏｒ,               ｓｏ               Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ               ｗｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｅ               ｉｔ               ｓｉｔｔｉｎｇ               ｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅｒｅ. Ｔｏｍ               ｈａｄ               ｐｌａｎｎｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎ               ｉｔ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ａｃｃｏｍｍｏｄａｔｉｎｇ               ｎｅｉｇｈｂｏｒ               ｔｏｍｏｒｒｏｗ,               ｐｅｒ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ａｒｒａｎｇｅｍｅｎｔ.                Ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｉｍｍｅｄｉａｔｅｌｙ               ｕｐｏｎ               ｃｒｏｓｓｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｔｈｒｅｓｈｏｌｄ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ               (ｓｕｃｈ               ａｓ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ),               Ｔｏｍ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｈｅ               ｈｅａｒｄ               …               ｗｈｉｓｔｌｉｎｇ               (!).                Ｈｅ               ｈａｄ:               ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ               ｉｎｓｉｄｅ               ｗａｓ               ｗｈｉｓｔｌｉｎｇ               ｓｏｆｔｌｙ,               ｔｈｉｎｌｙ;               ｉｎｓｉｄｅ.                Ｔｈｅ               ｍｅｌｏｄｙ               ｓｏｕｎｄｅｄ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｐｅｎｉｎｇ               ｍｅａｓｕｒｅｓ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｌｄ               Ｍａｖｅｒｉｃｋ               ＴＶ               ｓｈｏｗ               ｔｈｅｍｅ.                Ｔｈｅｎ               ｉｔ               ａｂｒｕｐｔｌｙ               ｅｎｄｅｄ               (ｂａｒｅｌｙ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｅｃｏｎｄ               ｓｔａｎｚａ).                Ａｓ               ｉｆ               "ｔｈｅ               ｗｈｉｓｔｌｅｒ"               ｒｅａｌｉｚｅｄ               Ｔｏｍ               ｈａｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎｅｄ               ｈｏｍｅ.                Ｓｉｌｅｎｃｅ.                                "Ｏｈ,               ｍａｎ               -               ｗｈａｔ               ｎｏｗ!"               Ｔｏｍ               ｍｕｔｔｅｒｅｄ               ａｌｏｕｄ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ. Ｈｅ'ｄ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈａｔ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｔｕｎｅ               ｔｏｄａｙ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｈｉｓ               Ｔｗｅｌｖｅ               Ｓｔｅｐ               ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇ,               ｗｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｐａｒｋｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｏａｄ,               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒｉｎｇ               ｃｈｉｌｄｈｏｏｄ               ｉｎｃｉｄｅｎｔｓ. Ａｎｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｉｎ               ｙｅａｒｓ               ｉｔ'ｄ               ｅｖｅｎ               ｃｒｏｓｓｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｍｉｎｄ.                Ｔｈｉｓ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｂｅ               ａ               ｃｏｉｎｃｉｄｅｎｃｅ.                                "Ｗｈｏ'ｓ               ｔｈｅｒｅ?"               Ｔｏｍ               ｃａｌｌｅｄ               ｏｕｔ,               ａｓ               ｈｅ               ｔｅｎｔａｔｉｖｅｌｙ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｔｏ               ｗａｌｋ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ｌｉｖｉｎｇ               ｒｏｏｍ,               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｒｇｅｓｔ               ｒｏｏｍ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｍａｌｌ               ｕｎｉｔ.                                Ｏｆｆ               ｔｏ               ｏｎｅ               ｓｉｄｅ,               ｉｎ               ａ               ｔｈｉｃｋｌｙ               ｐａｄｄｅｄ               ｏｌｄ               ｃｈａｉｒ               (ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｃａｍｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｕｒｎｉｓｈｅｄ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ,               ａｎｄ               ｗａｓ               ａｎｇｌｅｄ               ａｗａｙ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｅｔｔｉｎｇ               ａｆｔｅｒｎｏｏｎ               ｓｕｎ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｐｐｏｓｉｔｅ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｏｏｍ),               Ｔｏｍ               ｓａｗ               ｗｈａｔ               ａｐｐｅａｒｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ａ               ｍａｎ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｆａｎｃｙ               ｄａｒｋ               ｃｏｗｂｏｙ               ｏｕｔｆｉｔ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｒｎｅｒ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｅｙｅ. Ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｇｕｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｓｉｔｔｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｈａｉｒ.                                Ｎｅｒｖｏｕｓｌｙ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｓｗｉｖｅｌｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｐｌａｃｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｓｔａｒｅｄ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｈａｉｒ               ｉｎ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｆｉｇｕｒｅ               ａｐｐｅａｒｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｉｔ               -               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｂｒｉｅｆ               …               ｆｌｉｃｋｅｒ,               ｏｒ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｔｈａｔ               …               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｗｂｏｙ               ｗａｓ               ｇｏｎｅ;               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｒｅｐｌａｃｅｄ               ｂｙ               ａ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｉｎ               ｍａｙｂｅ               ｈｅｒ               ｅａｒｌｙ               30ｓ!                Ｔｈｅ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｗｏｍａｎ.                Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｈｅｒ!                                Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               …               "Ｔａｌｋｅｒ"               Ｈｕｎｔ!                                "Ｈｅｌｌｏ               ｔｈｅｒｅ,               ｂｉｇ               ｂｏｙ,"               ｓｔａｔｅｄ               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ,               ａｄｄｉｎｇ               ａ               ｗｅｌｃｏｍｅ               ｓｍｉｌｅ.                Ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｈｉｎｇ               ｗａｓ               -               ｓｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｔｒａｎｓｐａｒｅｎｔ. Ｔｏｍ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｓｅｅ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ｐａｒｔｓ               ｏｆ               ｈｅｒ               ｂｏｄｙ!                "Ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ               …               ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ..,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｂｅｇａｎ,               ｓｐｕｔｔｅｒｉｎｇ.                "Ｍａｇｎｉｆｉｃｅｎｔ?"               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｓａｉｄ,               ｒａｉｓｉｎｇ               ｏｎｅ               (ｌｉｍｐｉｄ)               ｅｙｅｌｉｄ.                "…Ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ               ｎｏｔ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｅｒｅ!"               Ｔｏｍ               ｇｕｓｈｅｄ.                Ｓｈｅ               ｆｒｏｗｎｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｍｏｍｅｎｔ               -               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｂａｃｋ               ｕｐ               ａｔ               ｈｉｍ,               ｈｅｒ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｔｗｉｎｋｌｉｎｇ               (ｈｏｗｅｖｅｒ               ｔｒａｎｓｐｉｃｕｏｕｓｌｙ). "Ｉ               ｇｅｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ａ               ｌｏｔ,"               ｓｈｅ               ｓａｉｄ. Ｓｈｅ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｃｌｏｓｅｄ               ｈｅｒ               ｅｙｅｓ               -               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｒｉｐｐｌｅ,               ｏｒ               ｗｈａｔｅｖｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｆｆｅｃｔ               ｗａｓ               -               ａｎｄ               ｈｅｒ               ｂｏｄｙ               ｓｏｌｉｄｉｆｉｅｄ.                Ｓｏｒｔ               ｏｆ.                Ｍｓ. Ｈｕｎｔ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ               ａｐｐｅａｒ               ｔｏ               ｈａｖｅ               ａｎｙ               ｍａｓｓ. Ｈｅｒ               ｒｅａｒ               ｅｎｄ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｈｏｖｅｒ               ｅｖｅｒ-ｓｏ-ｓｌｉｇｈｔｌｙ               ａｂｏｖｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｈａｉｒ               ｓｅａｔ               ｒａｔｈｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ               "ｓｉｔ"               ｉｎ               ｉｔ. Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａｓ               ｉｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｄｅｆｉｅｄ               ｇｒａｖｉｔｙ.                Ｏｒ               ｗａｓ               ｗｅｉｇｈｔｌｅｓｓ               ｉｎ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｗａｙ.                Ｔｈｅ               ｏｖｅｒａｌｌ               ｅｆｆｅｃｔ               ｒｅｍａｉｎｅｄ               ｕｎｓｅｔｔｌｉｎｇ,               ｒｅｇａｒｄｌｅｓｓ.                                "Ｂｅｔｔｅｒ?"               ｓｈｅ               ａｓｋｅｄ.                Ｔｏｍ               ｎｏｄｄｅｄ. Ｉｆ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ａｎｓｗｅｒｅｄ               "ｙｅｓ,"               ｈｅ               ｗｏｕｌｄ'ｖｅ               ｌｉｅｄ.                "Ｙｏｕ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｍｅ               ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ,               Ｉ               ｔａｋｅ               ｉｔ,"               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｅｄ.                Ｔｏｍ               ａｇａｉｎ               ｎｏｄｄｅｄ. "Ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｈａｖｅ               ｎｏ               ｉｄｅａ               ｗｈｙ,"               ｈｅ               ｓａｉｄ. "Ｉ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｔｈａｔ,               ｕｍ. Ｗｈｅｎ               ｗｅ…"                "Ｋｉｓｓｅｄ,"               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｓａｉｄ. "Ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｄ               ｉｓ               ｋｉｓｓｅｄ."                "Ｙｅｓ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｂｌｕｓｈｅｄ. Ｈｅ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｓｉｇｈｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｇａｚｅｄ               ｏｖｅｒ               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ'ｓ               ｉｍａｇｅ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｃａｒｅｆｕｌｌｙ. "Ａｒｅ               ｙｏｕ               ａ               ｇｈｏｓｔ? Ｔｈａｔ'ｄ               ｅｘｐｌａｉｎ               ａ               ｌｏｔ."                "Ｗｅ'ｖｅ               ａｌｒｅａｄｙ               ｈａｄ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｄｉｓｃｕｓｓｉｏｎ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｏｒ               ｌｅｓｓ,"               ｓｈｅ               ｓａｉｄ,               ｕｎｗｉｌｌｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｍａｓｋ               ｈｅｒ               ｐｅｒｋｉｎｅｓｓ. "Ｔｈｅ               ａｎｓｗｅｒ               ｉｓ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｎｏ."                "Ｔｈｅｎ               ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ               ａ               …               ｗｈａｔ?"                "Ａ               ｍｏｄｅｒａｔｅｌｙ               ｅｎｌｉｇｈｔｅｎｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｎｉｃｅｌｙ-ｂａｌａｎｃｅｄ               ｉｎｄｉｖｉｄｕａｌ."                "Ｎｏ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｓａｉｄ,               ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ               ａｗａｙ               ｂｒｉｅｆｌｙ. "Ｉ               ｍｅａｎ               -               ｗｈａｔ               ｄｏ               ｙｏｕ               ｄｏ? Ｂｅｓｉｄｅｓ               ｖｉｓｉｔｉｎｇ               ｍｅ               ｏｎｃｅ               ｅｖｅｒｙ               ｄｅｃａｄｅ               ｏｒ               ｔｗｏ?"                "Ｇｏｏｄ,"               ｓｈｅ               ｓａｉｄ,               ｎｏｗ               ｔｉｌｔｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒｗａｒｄ. "Ｙｏｕ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｔｈａｔ."                "Ｔａｌｋｅｒ"               ｔｉｌｔｅｄ,               ｈｅ               ｎｏｔｉｃｅｄ;               ｂｕｔ               ｓｈｅ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｓｉｔｔｉｎｇ.                                "Ｉ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒｉｎｇ,               ｅａｒｌｉｅｒ               ｔｈｉｓ               ａｆｔｅｒｎｏｏｎ,               ｓｏｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｗｈａｔ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｙｏｕ'ｄ               ｓａｉｄ               ｔｏ               ｍｅ               ａｔ               Ｄｕｒｔｙ               Ｎｅｌｌｉｅ'ｓ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎ               1976,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｓａｉｄ. "Ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｉｎ               ｓｐｌｏｔｃｈｅｓ. Ｉ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｙｏｕ               ｉｎ               Ｍａｉｎｅ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ."                "Ｗｅｌｌ,               ｏｆ               ｃｏｕｒｓｅ,               ｙｏｕ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｉｎｔｏｘｉｃａｔｅｄ               ａｔ               Ｄｕｒｔｙ               Ｎｅｌｌｉｅ'ｓ."                "Ｙｅｈ. Ｓｏ               ｗｈｙ               ｄｉｄ               ｙｏｕ               ｊｏｉｎ               ｍｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｎｉｇｈｔ               ｉｎ               Ｆｏｒｔ               Ｌａｕｄｅｒｄａｌｅ?"                "Ｉ               ｊｏｉｎｅｄ               ｙｏｕ,               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ..,"               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｂｅｇａｎ,               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｔｒａｃｅ               ｏｆ               ｉｍｐａｔｉｅｎｃｅ               -                "-Ａｎｄ               ｗｈｙ               ｄｉｄ               ｙｏｕ               ｃａｌｌ               ｍｅ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｂｅｌｏｖｅｄ?"                Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               Ｈｕｎｔ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｅｘｐｅｒｉｅｎｃｅｄ               ａ               ｒａｒｅ               ｍｏｍｅｎｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｅｒ:               ｓｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｔｅｍｐｏｒａｒｉｌｙ               ｓｐｅｅｃｈｌｅｓｓ.                "Ｔｈｏｍａｓ,"               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｓｌｏｗｌｙ. "Ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ｍａｉｎｔａｉｎｉｎｇ               ａ               ｃｅｒｔａｉｎ,               ｏｈ,               ｃａｌｃｕｌａｔｅｄ               ｄｉｓｔａｎｃｅ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｙｏｕ               ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｙｅａｒｓ               -               Ｉ'ｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｕｐ-ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｙｏｕ               ｏｔｈｅｒｗｉｓｅ. Ｉ'ｖｅ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｌｉｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｙｏｕ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ'ｖｅ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ａｔｔｅｍｐｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｗｉｔｈｈｏｌｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｒｏｎｇ               ａｆｆｅｃｔｉｏｎｓ               Ｉ               ｈａｖｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｙｏｕ               -               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｒｅｃｉｐｒｏｃａｔｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｂｏｔｈ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｏｃｃａｓｉｏｎｓ,               ｗｅｒｅｎ'ｔ               ｔｈｅｙ? Ｔｈｅ               ｇｒｅａｔｅｒ               ｔｒｕｔｈ               ｉｓ,               ｗｈｅｔｈｅｒ               ｙｏｕ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｏｒ               ｎｏｔ,               ｙｏｕｒ               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｅ,               ｅｖｅｎ               ｎｏｗ,               ａｒｅ               ｅｖｅｒｙ               ｂｉｔ               ａｓ               ｓｔｒｏｎｇ               ａｓ               ｍｉｎｅ               ａｒｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｙｏｕ               -               ｏｎｌｙ               ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ               ｌｏａｔｈｅ               ｔｏ               ａｄｍｉｔ               ｔｈａｔ. Ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｙ               ｉｓ               ｃｏｍｉｎｇ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｙｏｕ'ｌｌ               ｎｏｔ               ｒｕｎ               ａｗａｙ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｅ               ａｎｄ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｒｅｐｒｅｓｅｎｔ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｔｅｒｒｉｆｉｅｄ               ｃｈｉｌｄ               ｃａｔａｐｕｌｔｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｏｗｅｌｓ               ｏｆ               Ｔｈｅ               Ｃｏｎｇｏ               -               ａｎｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｄａｙ               ｉｓ               ｃｏｍｉｎｇ               ａ               ｌｏｔ               ｓｏｏｎｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ｙｏｕ               ｔｈｉｎｋ. Ｗｈｅｎ               ｉｔ               ｄｏｅｓ,               Ｉ'ｌｌ               ｔａｋｅ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｈａｎｄ               -               ａｔ               ｌｅａｓｔ               ｆｉｇｕｒａｔｉｖｅｌｙ               -               ａｎｄ               ｙｏｕ'ｌｌ               ｔａｋｅ               ｍｉｎｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｅ'ｌｌ               ｔａｌｋ,               ｗｅ'ｌｌ               ｌｉｓｔｅｎ,               ｗｅ'ｌｌ               ｐｌａｎ,               ｗｅ'ｌｌ               ｗａｎｄｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｅ'ｌｌ               ｇｅｎｅｒａｔｅ               ａ               ｇｒｅａｔ               ｄｅａｌ               ｏｆ               ｉｍｐａｃｔ               ｏｎ               ｏｔｈｅｒｓ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｗｅ'ｒｅ               ｎｕｍｂ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｅｌｏｄｒａｍａ               ｏｆ               ｉｔ               ａｌｌ               -               ａｎｄ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｗｅ               ｌｅａｖｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｈｙｓｉｃａｌ               ｐｌａｎｅ               ｉｎ               ｓｅａｒｃｈ               ｏｆ               ｆａｒ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｃｒｅａｔｉｖｅｌｙ-ｅｎｇａｇｉｎｇ,               ｆａｒ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｓｅｎｓｕｏｕｓｌｙ-ｓｕｂｔｌｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｆａｒ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｍｅａｎｉｎｇｆｕｌｌｙ-ｓｕｂｓｔａｎｔｉｖｅ               …               ｙｏｕ               ｋｎｏｗ,               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｒｅａｔｅｒ               ｓｃｈｅｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｉｎｇｓ               …               Ｐｕｒｓｕｉｔｓ."                Ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｌａｓｔ               ｗｏｒｄｓ               ｌｏｌｌｅｄ               ｏｆｆ               ｏｆ               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               Ｈｕｎｔ'ｓ               ｌｉｐｓ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｓｉｌｉｃｏｎ.                Ｓｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｈａｖｉｎｇ               ｆｕｎ.                                Ａｎｄ               ｓｏｍｅｗｈｅｒｅ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｎｃｌｕｓｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ｈｅｒ               ｆｌａｍｂｏｙａｎｔ               ａｎｄ               ｖｉｖａｃｉｏｕｓ               ｒｕｎ-ｏｎ               ｓｅｎｔｅｎｃｅｓ,               Ｔｏｍ               Ｍｅｎｄｅｌｓｏｎ               ｇｏｔ               ａ               ｈａｒｄ-ｏｎ.                Ｓｔｉｌｌ,               ｈｅ               ｍａｎａｇｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｋｅｅｐ               ｈｉｓ               ｗｉｔｓ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｈｉｍ.                "Ｏｋａｙ,"               ｈｅ               ｓａｉｄ,               ａｄｄｉｎｇ               ａ               ｃｏｎｃｉｌｉａｔｏｒｙ               ｓｍｉｌｅ. "Ｓｏｕｎｄｓ               ｇｏｏｄ."                "Ｙｅｓ,"               ｓｈｅ               ｓａｉｄ               ｓｏｆｔｌｙ. "Ｉｔ               ｄｏｅｓ."                Ｂｕｔ               Ｔｏｍ'ｓ               ｃｏｓｍｉｃ               ｐａｒａｍｏｕｒ               ｈａｄ               ａｎ               ａｄｄｉｔｉｏｎａｌ               ｐｕｒｐｏｓｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅｒｅ.                                Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               "ｔｉｌｔｅｄ"               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｈａｉｒ. "Ｏｎｅ               ｍｏｒｎｉｎｇ,               ｍａｎｙ,               ｍａｎｙ               ｙｅａｒｓ               ａｇｏ,               ｗｈｉｌｅ               ｙｏｕ               ｗｅｒｅ               ａｔｔｅｎｄｉｎｇ               ｃｏｌｌｅｇｅ               ｉｎ               Ｂｏｃａ               Ｒａｔｏｎ,               ｙｏｕ               ａｗｏｋｅ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｐｏｗｅｒｆｕｌ               ｄｒｅａｍ               ｉｍａｇｅｓ. Ｙｏｕ               ｇｏｔ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｂｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｕｐ               ａ               ｗｏｒｄ               ｉｎ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｄｉｃｔｉｏｎａｒｙ."                "Ｈｏｗ               ｄｉｄ               ｙｏｕ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｔｈａｔ?"               Ｔｏｍ               ｃｈｕｃｋｌｅｄ,               ａｆｔｅｒ               ａ               ｐａｕｓｅ.                "Ｉｔ'ｓ               ａｌｌ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｅｍｏｉｒｓ               ｙｏｕ               ｈａｖｅｎ'ｔ               ｗｒｉｔｔｅｎ               ｙｅｔ. Ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ? Ｉ'ｍ               ａｆｒａｉｄ               ｍｙ               ｍｅｔｅｒ               ｉｓ               ｎｏｗ               ｔｉｃｋｉｎｇ,               ｓｏ               ｗｅ               ｎｅｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｍｏｖｅ               ａｌｏｎｇ               ｈｅｒｅ               -               ｄｏ               ｙｏｕ               ｒｅｃａｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｄ?"                "Ｙｅｓ. Ｗｅｌｌ,               ｎｏ. Ｉ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｘｐｅｒｉｅｎｃｅ,               ｎｏｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｄ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｓａｉｄ,               ｒｅａｃｈｉｎｇ               ｄｅｅｐ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ｐａｓｔ. "Ｏｈ,               ｎｏ               -               ｗａｉｔ               -               ｙｅｓ,               Ｉ               ｄｏ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ. Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ,               ｍｉｓａｎｔｈｒｏｐｅ."                "Ｙｅｓ. Ａｎｄ               ｉｔｓ               ｄｅｆｉｎｉｔｉｏｎ?"                Ｔｏｍ               ｓｑｕｉｎｔｅｄ. "Ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｌｉｋｅ               …               ａ               ｈａｔｅｒ               ｏｆ               ｈｕｍａｎｋｉｎｄ."                "Ｎｏｔ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｌｉｋｅ,"               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｓａｉｄ. "Ｅｘａｃｔｌｙ               ｌｉｋｅ. Ｉ'ｍ               ｈｅｒｅ               ｉｎ               ｐａｒｔ,               ｔｈｉｓ               ｄａｙ,               ｔｏ               ｌｅｔ               ｙｏｕ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｙｏｕ'ｖｅ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｅｎｃｏｕｎｔｅｒｅｄ               ｏｎｅ               ｓｕｃｈ."                Ｔｏｍ               ｇａｗｋｅｄ               ｂａｃｋ               ａｔ               ｈｅｒ. "Ｙｏｕ               ｍｅａｎ               -               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅｅｒ               Ｋｅｇ?"                Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｎｏｄｄｅｄ. "Ｔｈｅ               ｍｕｒｄｅｒ               ｏｆ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄ'ｓ               ｐｅｔ               ｈａｄ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ａｎｉｍａｌ               -               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ｈｉｍ               ｆｕｎｃｔｉｏｎｉｎｇ               ａｓ               ａ               ｍｉｒｒｏｒ               ｏｆ               ｈｉｓ               ｏｗｎｅｒ               -               ａｎｄ               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｅｖｅｒｙｔｈｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄ. Ｔｈａｔ               ｖｉｏｌｅｎｔ               ｉｎｄｉｖｉｄｕａｌ               ｈａｔｅｓ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄ."                "Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｇｅｔ               ｉｔ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｓａｉｄ. "Ｔｈｅ               ｇｕｙ'ｓ               ａ               ｒａｃｉｓｔ. Ｒａｃｉｓｔｓ               ｈａｔｅ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ. Ｓｏ               ｗｈａｔ?"                "Ｉｔ'ｓ               ｎｏｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｒａｃｅ,"               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｒｅｓｐｏｎｄｅｄ               ｆｉｒｍｌｙ,               "ｅｖｅｎ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｉｇｈｂｏｒ,               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｔｒｕｅ,               ｄｅｔｅｓｔｓ               ｂｌａｃｋ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｓｔ               ｐａｒｔ,               ａｓ               ｗｅｌｌ."                Ｔｏｍ               ｆｒｏｗｎｅｄ. "Ｉ'ｍ               ａｆｒａｉｄ               Ｉ'ｍ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｎｏｔ               ｆｏｌｌｏｗｉｎｇ               ｔｈｉｓ."                "Ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｉｇｈｂｏｒ               ｈａｔｅｓ               ｉｎｎｏｃｅｎｃｅ,               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｉｎ               ｈｉｓ               ｗｏｒｌｄ,               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｎｏｔ               ｔｈｅｒｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｓｏ               ｈｅ               ｓｅｅｓ               ｉｔ               ａｓ               ａ               ｄｅｌｕｓｉｏｎａｌ               ａｆｆｅｃｔａｔｉｏｎ               ｉｎ               ｏｔｈｅｒｓ. Ｂｕｔ               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓａｍｅ               ｉｎｎｏｃｅｎｃｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｓａｖｅ               ｈｉｍ,               ｉｆ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｅｍｂｒａｃｅ               ｉｔ               -               ｂｕｔ               ｈｅ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｗｉｌｌ,               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｈｅ'ｓ               ｔｅｒｒｉｆｉｅｄ               ｏｆ               ａｐｐｅａｒｉｎｇ               ｗｅａｋ               …                "Ｔｈｅ               ｄｅｃａｄｅｓ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｍｅ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｂｅ               ｒｉｆｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｕｍａｎ               ｂｅｉｎｇｓ               ｉｓｏｌａｔｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅｍｓｅｌｖｅｓ               ａｗａｙ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｏｎｅ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ,               ｐａｒｔｌｙ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｆｅａｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｐａｒｔｌｙ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｒｅｌｅｎｔｌｅｓｓ               ａｎｄ               ｎｕｍｂｉｎｇ               ｃｏｍｐｅｔｉｔｉｖｅｎｅｓｓ,"               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｓａｉｄ. "Ｔｈｅ               Ａｍｅｒｉｃａ               ｙｏｕ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｙｏｕ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｃｈａｎｇｅ               ｓｏ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｉｎ               ｆｉｆｔｅｅｎ               ｙｅａｒｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｙｏｕ,               ｙｏｕｒｓｅｌｆ,               ｗｉｌｌ               ｃｏｍｐａｒｅ               ｉｔ               ｔｏ               ａ               "ｄｉｄａｃｔｉｃ               Ｔｗｉｌｉｇｈｔ               Ｚｏｎｅ               ｅｐｉｓｏｄｅ."               Ｐｏｓｔａｌ               ｓｅｒｖｉｃｅ               ｗｏｒｋｅｒｓ,               ｄｏｗｎｓｉｚｅｄ               ｅｍｐｌｏｙｅｅｓ,               ｒａｃｉｓｔｓ,               ｓｔａｌｋｅｒｓ,               ｄａｙ               ｔｒａｄｅｒｓ               -               ｙｏｕ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｅｒｍ               ｙｅｔ               -               ｔｅｒｒｏｒｉｓｔｓ,               ｂｏｔｈ               ｆｏｒｅｉｇｎ               ａｎｄ               ｄｏｍｅｓｔｉｃ,               ａｎｄ               ｅｖｅｎ               ｅｌｅｍｅｎｔａｒｙ               ｓｃｈｏｏｌ               ｃｈｉｌｄｒｅｎ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｌｉｔｅｒａｌｌｙ               ｓｔｏｒｍ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｐｌａｃｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｗｏｒｋ               ｏｒ               ｓｔｕｄｙ,               ｏｒ               ｐｌａｙ,               ｇｕｎｓ               ａ-ｂｌａｚｉｎｇ. Ｔｈｅｙ'ｌｌ               ｃｏｍｍｉｔ               ｍｕｒｄｅｒ,               ｌｉｋｅ               ｂｌａｎｋ               ａｕｔｏｍａｔｏｎｓ. Ｎｏｔ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｏｎｃｅ. Ｂｕｔ               ｍａｎｙ               ｔｉｍｅｓ. Ｎｏ               ｏｎｅ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ               ｉｔ,               ｎｏｔ               ｃｏｍｐｌｅｔｅｌｙ               -               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ａｒｅ               ｔｅｒｒｉｂｌｅ               ｉｎｓａｎｉｔｉｅｓ,               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｅｖｅｎｔｓ. Ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅｙ               ａｌｌ               ｇｒｅｗ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｉｎｓａｎｉｔｉｅｓ               -               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｃｕｒｒｅｎｔ               ｄｅｃａｄｅ               ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ               ｉｎ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｎｕｒｔｕｒｅ. Ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｒｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｅｖｅｎｔｓ               ｉｓ               ａ               ｔｗｉｓｔｅｄ               ｐｅｒｓｐｅｃｔｉｖｅ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｕｒｐｏｓｅ               ｏｆ               ｗｈａｔ               ｉｔ               ｉｓ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｈｕｍａｎ."                Ｔｏｍ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｍａｎａｇｅ               ｔｏ               ｓｔａｒｅ               ａｔ               ｈｅｒ.                "Ｍｙ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｈｅｒｅ               ｎｏｗ               ｉｓ               ｅｌａｐｓｉｎｇ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｑｕｉｃｋｌｙ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｅ               …               Ｉ               ｅｎｃｏｕｒａｇｅ               ｙｏｕ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｄ,               "ｍｉｓａｎｔｈｒｏｐｅ,"               ａｎｄ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｎｔｅｍｐｌａｔｅ               ｉｔｓ               ｄｅｅｐｅｓｔ               ｍｅａｎｉｎｇｓ               ... Ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｉｇｎｏｒｅ               ｙｏｕｒ               Ｂｉｂｌｉｃａｌ               ｐａｓｔ,               ｅｉｔｈｅｒ. Ｂｅｇｉｎ               ｍａｋｉｎｇ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｅｆｆｏｒｔｓ               ｔｏ               ｇｅｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｏｕｃｈ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈａｔ. Ｉｔ               ｍａｙ               ｈｅｌｐ."                "Ｊｅｅｚ,               Ｉ               ｆｏｒｇｏｔ               ｙｏｕ'ｄ               ｂｒｏｕｇｈｔ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｂｉｂｌｉｃａｌ               ｓｔｕｆｆ               ｕｐ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ!"               Ｔｏｍ               ｓａｉｄ,               ｒｏｌｌｉｎｇ               ｈｉｓ               ｅｙｅｓ.                "Ｙｅｓ,               Ｉ'ｍ               ｎｏｔ               ｓｕｒｐｒｉｓｅｄ,"               ａｇｒｅｅｄ               Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               Ｈｕｎｔ,               ｔｅｎｄｅｒｌｙ. "Ｂｕｔ,               Ｉ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｍｕｓｔ               ｇｏ,               ｎｏｗ               -               Ｉ               ａｐｏｌｏｇｉｚｅ               -               Ｉ'ｍ               ｒｕｎｎｉｎｇ               ｃｏｍｐｌｅｔｅｌｙ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｇａｓ               ｈｅｒｅ…               Ｉ'ｍ               ｓｏｒｒｙ,               ｍｙ               ｂｅｌｏｖｅｄ,"               ｓｈｅ               ｓａｉｄ,               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｓｍｉｌｅ               -               ａｄｄｉｎｇ               ａｎ               ｋｎｏｗｉｎｇ               ｗｉｎｋ. "Ｗｅ'ｌｌ               ｔａｌｋ               ａｇａｉｎ               ｓｏｏｎ               …               ｗｅ               ｗｉｌｌ               …               Ｖｅｒｙ               ｓｏｏｎ               …"                                Ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｗｏｒｄ               ｗａｓ               ｅｘｃｈａｎｇｅｄ,               ｈｅｒ               ｉｍａｇｅ               ｄｉｓｓｉｐａｔｅｄ               -                Ｔｈｅｎ               ｉｔ               ｂｌｅｎｄｅｄ               ｐｅｒｆｅｃｔｌｙ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇｎｅｓｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈａｄｏｗｓ.                                Ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ               ｒｅｍａｉｎｅｄ,               ｉｎｃｌｕｄｉｎｇ               ｈｅｒ               ｓｌｉｇｈｔ               ｉｌｌｕｍｉｎａｔｉｏｎ.                Ｔａｗｋｅｒ               ｈａｄ               ｅｖａｐｏｒａｔｅｄ.                                "Ｊｅｓｕｓ,"               Ｔｏｍ               ｗｈｉｓｐｅｒｅｄ,               ｔｏｐｐｌｉｎｇ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ｃｏｕｃｈ.                                Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｙｅｔ               ｏｎｅ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｏｕｔｌａｎｄｉｓｈ               ｄａｙ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ               ｔｒｙ               ｔｏ               ｍａｋｅ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｓｅｎｓｅ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ.                                #               #               #

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1. Summer Camp Nova Southeastern University – Cybercamps – Fort Lauderdale Florida

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   flight358ptsdisorder.blogspot.com/   08/04/2005

   ...in certain situations," said Steven Taylor, a professorof psychiatry at the University of British Columbia, whose researchfocuses on trauma and anxiety.As Neil...

5. Miami Artists Roberto Behar and Rosario Marquardt Featured at Fort Lauderdale Museum of Art

   artcircuitsartcentric.blogspot.com/   08/03/2011

   ...and Sound" at the Museum of Art in Fort Lauderdale, of Nova Southeastern University, located at One East Las...historian now teaching at the University of Miami. "What they are...

6. Psychiatrist Fort Lauderdale

   westseattlereligiouseducation.blogspot.com/   07/11/2013

   ...emotional and mental illness. They will have gone to university and studied psychiatry at a time when the psychiatrist fort lauderdale at war with Muslim servicemen in the psychiatrist...

7. Fort Lauderdale Outdoors and Recreational Opportunities

   floridarelocate.blogspot.com/   10/16/2013

   ...of Fame Aquatic Complex 501 Sea breeze Blvd, Fort Lauderdale 954 468-1580. Miami Dolphins From... Camp July-August. Nova Southeastern University, 7500 SW 30th Street, Davie. 954 452...

8. Florida History: Fort Lauderdale makes strides in the 1920s, hosts Pres-elect Harding

   janesbits.blogspot.com/   05/19/2011

   ...Philip J. , Burghard, August. Checkered Sunshine . Gainesville: University of Florida Press (1966). Tags: Fort Lauderdale history, President Warren G. Harding, Florida history, Fort Lauderdale in...

9. Florida History: Hugh T. Birch, Fort Lauderdale, and the state park

   janesbits.blogspot.com/   03/26/2011

   ...Philip J., Burghard, August. Checkered Sunshine . Gainesville: University of Florida Press (1966). Tags: Fort Lauderdale history, Florida State parks, Hugh T. Birch, Florida history, Hugh...

10. Florida History: Seminole Shirttail Charlie - sentenced outcast in Fort Lauderdale?

    janesbits.blogspot.com/   03/24/2011

    ...Philip J. , Burghard, August. Checkered Sunshine . Gainesville: University of Florida Press (1966). Tags: Fort Lauderdale history, Seminole history, Florida history

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