I slam the refrigerator shut and ask myself why? Will keeping it make it fresher? “There’s bananas and oatmeal over there,” I say, gesturing to the space I made near the sink. “And chocolate cupcakes with sprinkles.”

People like the Restless Man always got to enjoy the benefits of admiration without doing the admirable thing. When his father was alive (time since father’s passing is unknown to the Restless Man), he was the same way — always in some hole where he did not belong. People looked the other way, then, too.

"That's a lot of time spent. It's a nice song with something to it." The old man smirked through the crackle and smell of a freshly lit cigarette. "If you like, we could run up the hill here and see. Maybe there's a place for you. A chance to use your gift - a time to call your own - an audience out there. Travel. Lots of people could hear you play."

They move to the back of the store to, thank god, the bathroom that doesn’t really lock. The door is already partially open. White Trash’s foot must have kicked it when he fell. That is where is now; on his back, his face contorting with discomfort. A black pistol is visible on the floor, nudging against the White Trash hat. A gold bullet casing rests in the corner. Everything about the boy is now revealed on the dirty bathroom tile.