District Attorney Jack Pitt woke early, as always. As always, he made no attempt to move quietly in deference to his sleeping wife. Then he remembered she was on another of her ever-more-frequent and ever-more-lengthy visits to her mother, and felt cheated.

He considered calling her, just to keep his hand in, but decided he couldn’t be bothered.

As he pulled his long black hair back and fastened it into a ponytail, he imagined a typical morning conversation.

“Sloth is a sin,” he might say, in his courtroom voice.

“I bow to the expert,” Barb would probably say.

He walked out on the imaginary conversation, as he would have on a real one.

Pitt locked his front door, did a few warm-up stretches, and jogged toward the abrupt end of his career and his life.

The sun was still low when Pitt turned onto Haymarket Street. He was thinking of the several empty properties he’d bought on this all-but-abandoned relic of an old slaughterhouse industry. His ponytail bounced against his back as he huffed along, breath fogging in the early spring chill.

The streetlights hadn’t gone out yet, and he passed from one pool of brightness to another. He’d make a killing on this street when the city’s development groups got wind of the mayor’s Renovate for the Arts incentives. One day, this crumbling corridor would be lined with expensive renters Pitt had no idea what, exactly. Some artsy shit, he supposed. Barb dealt with all the artsy shit. But his investment here would pay off, and pay off nicely.

He was near one of his properties when the sound of an approaching car overrode his own rhythmic huffing.

The car accelerated, jumped the curb, and knocked him flying. He smashed through a plate-glass window, landing hard and sliding with the force of his momentum. He was surprised that it didn’t hurt. That was nice.

A car door slammed. Footsteps. A pause, then closer footsteps.

He felt warm and cozy. He hoped the person coming toward him wouldn’t want him to get up. He was so comfortable.

A foot prodded him. He opened his eyes. It was someone he knew. Smiling. That was nice. A smile was a nice thing to see, last thing before you go to sleep.

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I was born in Louisville, Kentucky, but now live in the woods in southern Indiana. Though I only write fiction, I love to read non-fiction. The more I learn about this world, the more fantastic I see it is.

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