A few things were scattered about on a small square table in her apartment.
Among the lot of the things were several books (one by Stephen King), a bottle of rubbing alcohol, car keys, roughly eleven dollars (including a half-opened roll of quarters), a small spray bottle for cleaning eyeglasses, two snack-size bags of Doritos (one already opened), a camera, and a tiny red medical journal.
Outside were two cats; they weren't in a frolic, but were sizing each other up.
The still, orange one was more in favor of a retreat, while the other, a gray one, was taking his inward aggression and contemplating his next move.
Sarah's Maine house was nice. Located in Bath, close to an ideal spot for fishing, running, or just about anything you could think would suit the outdoors type fine.
At this spot there was a swimming hole where many townspeople came.
Most people were swimming that day opposed to running, getting their natural highs by breathing in the air floating through such a wonderful sector of sunlit woods.
Not far from the hole, however, nine miles up a graveled road, a man could be seen walking his black poodle.
He was in the gayest mood, had his fishing pole and his tackle box, and seemed unstoppable heading to the shallow lake.
Strangely, no one saw the man that afternoon when at one point his dog pooped on some flowers, distracting him, resulting in him getting hit by a car. Fortunate for the dog but not for him.
She was walking to put her plant on the window sill in the cafe called 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre' when she just so happened to stumble onto the news article written in the Texas Daily alerting her of what had happened. "Hey Stacy, check this out. This is right down the street. 'Man found dead after walking into oncoming traffic.' This is crazy," Stacy said. "It's too close."
A long ways away in Key West, Bill Baldsley was notified by Sarah, his niece, of the man's untimely death, and the then-young Mr. Baldsley set out for Maine.
During his travels he brought so much stuff with him that the drivers of all the buses he boarded hassled him for having so much luggage.
Mr. Baldsley quickly got out of control on one particular bus, and the driver told him to shut up and sit still or he would be let off it.
However, that evening Mr. Baldsley arrived safely to the cafe were Sarah was and gave her a big hug.
In the back of the cafe there was some cock fighting going on, and some men were gambling. A man called the 'Golden Pony' was winning most of the money, but nobody knew how he was winning it.
Outside in the night streets, while this was going on, a dangerous man who was not known by the town stood next to a few other men.
There was no sense of danger at first, but after a short while the man, partly inebriated, started showing signs he was not well. "Who are you, sir?" said one of the men.
"I'm a war veteran suffering from memory problems and PTSD."
He quickly pulled out his army knife that had been tucked in between his belt, held sturdy by the pressure of his out-pushed belly fat, and waved it around. "I have killed people in combat in Afghanistan."
"How many?" another man asked. "Two."
"The guy kept talking about his goats and wouldn't shut up, so I shot them."
The war veteran was fed more beer by a Portuguese man who struggled to drink it, and after dropping the bottle, he had stated he hated broken glass and hurled the bottle out into the unlit intersection, almost hitting a woman on her bicycle. Then he pointed his knife at anyone challenging his intelligence. The apparently deranged man eventually wandered off.
The next day, the man that had witnessed this incident showed up at the cafe.
Working that day was a young bartender with poor judgement of character. There was a comment made about the black waiter and the bartender thought he was profiling. Of course, what he meant was stereotyping. Everything escalated from there.
Nobody got hurt in the end of all this, but the young man walked away thinking that the whole series of events could've been avoided. In hindsight it's always like this, he thought.
