The night is quiet. It is early morning. Still dark. Only noise is the hum of the refrigerator. There are no dogs barking nor cats hissing. No cars without mufflers; just silent and dark. 

Thelma sits on the metal chair in front of the table. She lights a candle, giving off  an orange glow. She places her hands in her lap, then above her head, stretching her lean body. Looks at the few bricks of pot left, one tore open. She touches it and laughs. 

Stems, she says. Twigs. She spies rolling papers on the table as well and proceeds to roll a joint. This reminds her of younger days. Before she met Walter. Back when she hitched rides throughout the U.S. trying to escape something she was never quite sure of. We’re all leaving someplace or something, Thelma laughs. It’s the American way. She lights the joint with the flame from the candle, sits back in the chair, and inhales while coughing just a bit. She blows smoke into the air.

Bobby? Is that you, Bobby? Walter walks into the front room. He can barely see in front of him. Thelma blows out the candle and runs to the door. Turning the handle and stepping outside, she leaves.

Walter fumbles for the light switch and finds it. He notices the door ajar. He looks outside and sees nothing. No dogs barking nor cats hissing. No cars without mufflers. Just a streetlight flickering on and off with footprints glistening in freshly fallen snow.