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Must be a busy morning.
    “What’s the matter? You can’t hear me, buddy?” asks the painter.
    It’s the Joseph Vaughns of the world who have given regular people license to act like this. Talking heads on television who have repeated the incendiary words again and again until the insane has become commonplace. This guy sitting here wearing his work clothes isn’t a monster, he probably has a wife and kids and—
    “Hey!” he shouts.
    The cashier walks over, shoes squeaking on tile. Puts a handon my shoulder. “We don’t want trouble. You got to go,” he says quietly.
    “I’ll go when I’m ready,” I say.
    “Let’s see your temple, buddy,” calls the painter again.
    I hang my head lower, studying the meaningless TV-fuzz design on the countertop. Looking for a pattern in noise. This day has been coming for years and I had front-row seats but I never let myself see. Samantha bounced around the courts, trying to find a legal ground for her own existence, but every time things took another turn for the worse, I convinced myself it was someone else’s problem. Well, it’s sure as hell my problem now.
    “You a fucking amp or something?” asks the painter, voice rising.
    The cashier puts his hands on his hips, motions with his head toward the door.
    I get up and leave.
    My friend Dwayne lives a few minutes from here. I’ve known him for a few years and he’s the kind of guy who can see things from another person’s perspective. I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and walk in his direction. Cars blow past me, scattering candy wrappers and damp paper cartons of iced tea. A crucifix of sweat stains my T-shirt by the time I trudge through Dwayne’s toy-strewn yard and knock on the door.
    “You’re on TV, Owen. That sucks about your dad,” he says.
    I swallow salty tears.
    “But did you kill that girl?” he asks, half hiding behind the door.
    “What?”
    “News said the cops want to talk to you. They got your face up there with a bunch of other guys. Soldiers or terrorists or something.”
    “She was a student—”
    “That’s what they said on the news. She was a former student of yours. What was going on between you two, man? This is serious.”
    I don’t even know how to respond. “I need a place to stay for a couple nights. My dad … I’ve got no place to go.”
    “I don’t know. I think you need to get on the move, man. Let this all blow over.”
    “Tomorrow.”
    Dwayne orients his body to block the door. “Owen, man, I’ve got to think about Monica and the kids,” he whispers urgently. “Your face is on the news. I can’t let you in here.”
    “How long have I known you, Dwayne?”
    He pauses for a second, then answers, “No.”
    “What?”
    “No. I’m sorry, Owen. You have to find someplace else to go.”
    Dwayne is standing there, chin set, blocking the doorway. I get the strange feeling that this is all a joke, that we’re together onstage and any minute he’s going to burst out laughing and welcome me inside.
    “It’s a mistake. A mix-up,” I say, taking a step forward. “I’m still me.”
    Dwayne doesn’t move, but his eyes get hard. The door swings open a little wider and I see he’s got a splintery wooden bat clenched in his other hand. The one he keeps in the umbrella stand by his front door.
    “It’s my family. There’s a lot of bad shit going down—what am I supposed to do?” he asks.
    I’ve got no answer to that question. Until now, the rules were written down on paper, neat and legible. But a judge tore the fucking paper to shreds. The rules are gone. All that’s left is the grass-stained baseball bat in Dwayne’s fist.
    “I’m sorry,” says Dwayne.
    I turn and hurry down the porch steps.
    “What am I supposed to do?” he calls after me. “What can I do about it, Owen?”
    CNN.com
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    Live Blog: Former Echo Squad Soldiers Suspected in Bombing Plot, One Suspect Killed
    Report Timeline:
    [Posted at 8:12 a.m. ET] A bomb blast has torn through