Highway 41 was slick; rain, sleet, snow; cold temperature; so much for weather reports.

He stopped at a motel in Morocco, Indiana; up in the northwest section of the state; south of Gary in Lake County; dead cornfields; yellowed by the winds and seasons; bedbugs made him itch.

The old man couldn’t sleep. A hollow wind blew debris all over the parking lot. He pulled back the curtin and watched potato chip bags, candy wrappers, fast-food boxes fly around under blue lights and a silver moon. This wind hissed. He lit a cigarette and leaned back in the pleather chair. At least he was dry.

A car pulled up and shined it’s headlights on the old man. He sat still as a tall man with a cowboy hat got out and walked towards his room with a gun pointed at the door. He knew it was his time.

Open up, the voice said. Police. Open up now nice and slow, the old man followed directions. Place your hands behind your head, the cop spread the old man’s feet apart with a swift kick. Virgil A. Ives, you are under arrest for the murder of one Dorothy Ives. You have the right to remain silent, the old man knew the rest, he tuned out.

In the squad car back to the jail, the old man kept whispering in between sobs that he was sorry. Kept on saying he was sorry. Said he had to. He had to. There was no other way. Put her out of her misery.

She would’ve wanted it that way.