Horace rubbed at his temples, listening to the drone of the television set in the waiting room's corner. The thing's picture and sound were nearly unintelligible, coming in as a garbled, half-static mess. He could tell that it frustrated the other patrons.

He mused that this place was like a purgatory, of sorts. While it was true that there was no divine judgment pending, he thought the waiting experience still proved pretty illustrative to the character of the waiting person… did they tap their fingers or feet impatiently? Did they lash out at others? Or did they wait contentedly (or, at least, non-disruptively) while their car was serviced? It wasn't his place to judge others, as only God could, but he still passed the time by categorizing the other people in the waiting room. The woman who had yelled at the clerk after waiting for an hour? Inferno. The man over near the door who read a book without having checked his watch or the wall-mounted clock? Paradiso. The couple, likely husband and wife, flipping through magazines and chatting softly? Well, they were currently allowing their children to run around and terrorize the outdoors—Horace had seen them throwing rocks at each other just earlier, screaming, shrieking things that they were—but the parents themselves were quite calm and patient. Jury's still out with them.

Carrying a styrofoam cup of what was presumably coffee, a new woman entered the room from the hallway opposite the entrance door. She had a small frame and dark brown hair cut short, arranged into a decidedly masculine hairstyle. Her clothing wasn't form-fitting or even particularly flattering… it seemed that she had chosen her outfit using the single criterion "what looks the most uninteresting?" Here, Horace thought, is a woman hiding her femininity. She sat down in the chair next to Horace's and sighed, sipping at her coffee with two cupped hands.

"They've got a secret machine in the back… you think it'd be employees only, but customers, too. Just down the hall," the woman said.

Horace looked left and right, trying to figure out who she'd been speaking to. Seeing nobody, he then furrowed his brow. Secret machine?

"Coffee machine, that is," she added, noticing the absence of that important detail.

Horace nodded graciously. "Thanks kindly… but I can't do coffee. The caffeine sets my heart pounding," he replied.

"I wish I had an excuse half so good to quit the stuff," she said between sips. "Sometimes I think this and the cigarettes are the only things keeping me chugging. Whatever happened to the times when a good night's sleep was enough?"

"Haven't had one of those in a while," Horace replied.

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"Cigarettes?"

"A good night's sleep."

"A kindred spirit, then," said the woman. "What's it for you?"

"Hmm?" Horace asked, unsure of her meaning.

"What's keeping you up?"

Horace was silent for a moment, taken aback by the deeply personal question from this total stranger.

"Mine's my family," she volunteered, taking the lead. "You think you know them inside and out… but lately I've been worrying."

Horace only now noticed her wedding ring. "Infidelity?" he guessed, immediately feeling like the question crossed some personal line the moment he spoke it aloud. She simply shrugged it off.

"Well, that, too, but I'm increasingly sure my husband would rather have a husband of his own, if you catch my drift."

Horace was flabbergasted by the woman's frank openness, here in the middle of a mechanic's waiting room. Before he could reply, she bowled on.

"My son, too. No, not the wanting a husband thing, but I'm worried he's run in with the wrong crowd. You try and steer 'em right, but, after a certain point, you've gotta let go of the bike and let them pedal on their own…" The woman turned to him. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to offload like this. I just haven't had many people I can talk to lately."

Horace offered his most sincere smile he could muster. "I don't mind at all."

"Well, how about you? What's yours?"

Mine? Oh, my cause for lack of sleep. Horace's mind scrambled for a safe way to answer that question. "My work," he finally said, choosing his words carefully.

"What is it you do?" she asked.

"I'm an accountant," he replied. A half-truth. That was his primary vocation, sure, and it certainly had its share of stresses, but it was certainly not the reason for his current worries.

"Haunted by the numbers?"

"Well, I work for family… things get a little complicated."

She nodded, pensive, looking out the window. Horace felt driven by the silence to continue speaking.

"They're out-of-state. I'm just passing through for a couple days, truth be told. Not from around here. What is it that you do?" Horace asked, returning the question. The woman suddenly began to stand.

"I'll give you one hint," she said, downing the last of her coffee. "My car's done."

Horace turned to the window and his stomach dropped. There, pulling to the front of the store, was a black-and-white squad car, stenciled with the letters BOONE PD.

"You? A cop?" he asked, not doing a very good job hiding his surprise.

"Someone's gotta do it," she replied. "I'm not on shift yet, hence the clothes. Either way, it was nice to meet you, mister…" she trailed off, waiting for a name. Horace debated lying to the woman, but figured it was better to not risk getting on the police's suspicions before he'd done anything in town.

"Horace, just call me Horace."

"Well, Horace, it was nice to make your acquaintance. My name's Nora." She handed him a business card. "My telephone number is on there… if you need anything at all while you're in town, feel free to give me a call."

"Will do," Horace lied. He watched her leave and then turned to the business card, his stomach twisting even further when he read the last name. Nora Campbell, no doubt the police officer mentioned in the letter. He'd been instructed to avoid any attention before he made his move… off to a great start, Horace. Off to a real great start.