The television was off. So was the radio; it was dark throughout the house. He sat in the living room staring out the window at nothing in particular. Just staring. Counting cars as they drove by silently, to himself.

A Dodge went past, then a Ford, and another Ford. One car, a Chevrolet rolled down the hill with no lights on; seemed like it’s motor was off too. The vehicle was coasting. It was hard to make it out in the dark, only a few street lights were shining.

A Chevy truck. Just an old truck. That’s what it was. A truck in the early morning hours with stuff in the back end of it.

The passenger kept getting out of the black truck and grabbing bundles in the back. They were newspapers. The man was delivering newspapers. Throwing them up on the fine trimmed lawns of suburbia. He was like a well oiled machine; get out, grab papers, fold em, and throw em. What precession, the old man thought. This man was a pro.

He closed the curtains in the living room. Went over to his gun rack and pulled out his shot gun. Opening the window just a bit, he stuck his gun through a crack in the curtains and out into the night air. The old man watched the newspaper deliverer and took count of his pacing. I’ve got one shot, he thought. Just one, he looked through his scope. His greasy finger was on the trigger. Not today, he said. Not today. And he placed the gun back in its rack.

Honey, you coming to bed, his wife called from down the hall.

Yes dear. I’m coming.