A light over the stove. Water drips from a faucet. Knives in a block. A refrigerator hums and leaks. He sits at the kitchen table, glancing over the day’s headlines.

A sixteen year old male shot an elderly woman on the red line last night at 95th Street. Two men robbed a bar on Chicago’s North side last night and got away with the ATM. Although caught on camera, the two are still at large. The Bears are considering a move to Hammond. He rubs his temples and feels a headache starting to throb.

The hall light comes on. She walks into the kitchen. Good morning, the wife says.

Is it?

We’re alive, she tells him.

Are we? He asks. Sometimes, it feels like we’re watching all this hell from up above, he says. She starts the coffeemaker. A fly buzzes by the old man. He swings wildly but can not make contact.

She pours coffee in a Thermos to the top and spins on the lid. Here you go, dear. Sugar and cream. Just the way you like it.

He grins. You’ve been pouring my coffee for thirty-five years now, he says. Getting to be about that time.

Yes, dear. She kisses him goodbye and watches as he walks out to his truck. She waves, and he waves back.

She turns on the morning news. The elderly woman shot on the red line didn’t make it. The boy now faces a murder charge.

Outside, the day begins.