Last Things Always Last

On an early morning in the winter of 1994, a man named Clyde Baughman slips from his bed with a wariness that betrays more than just age taking its toll on his body. He lives alone these days, so as he approaches the bedroom door, his hand hesitates just short of the handle. He listens. Waits. And when he is satisfied with what he hears on the other side, he opens the door and peers out into the darkness of his apartment before reaching out blindly around the frame of his door to flip a switch.

Then, wincing at the sudden light - even one he expected - he shuffle-steps out into the hall and makes his way towards his bathroom.

The lights are turned on and he stands before the medicine cabinet, examining the weary lines of his face.

It is as he goes to reach for his toothbrush that he feels it - a sudden stab of pain. A tingle. His arm jolts. The toothbrush holder is knocked to the side. Breathing becomes difficult. He clutches at his chest and stumbles. Sock-clad feet begin to slip on a tiled floor and a hand shoots out desperately for something. When he grabs at the towel rack, it gives under his weight. He falls hard against the shower door, feeling it crack from the force. By the time he collapses to the floor, he's only vaguely aware of how cold the tiles feel against his skin.

Over time, phone calls are made.

The next day, unmarked cars pull into the lot. Seemingly no different from the ones around them.

Clyde knew names. Places. Things that should be kept quiet. And quickly...