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    Roxy eyed a mirror her mother found at a second hand shop a few years back. She studied her reflection in the framed mirror, on the wall, beside the sink. Her flawless skin had a collection of random beads of sweat. She fixed her left eyebrow with her finger, which had been disrupted when she wiped her brow. Her pouty lips were rosy, but felt parched, and her eyes struck her as peculiar. Not only were they bloodshot, but the actual shade seemed abnormal. Instead of the soft brown, which they had been all her life, they appeared lighter in color with little flecks of what looked to her as teal. She blinked her eyes, then shook her head, resolving that in her weakened state her eyes must be deceiving her.
    As she swallowed the pills with a big gulp of water, she noticed Gypsy pawing in the space between the wall and the oven.
    “What is it, Gypsy?” Roxy knelt down and looked beside the stove.
    She hoped it wasn’t a mouse. Her thoughts went back to last year when their house had been invaded by the field mice. She hated the nasty, little critters.
    Peering into the narrow crevice, she found herself surprised at how well she could see in the darkened crevice. A few crumbs, a fork and a blob of something could be spotted near the back. She inhaled through her nose and instantly could smell the pungent aroma of cheese. Munster, she thought.
    She stood. I must be hallucinating. There’s no way I could smell a glob of Munster on the floor way back there, especially if I am felling sick.
    Shuffling her feet sluggishly toward t he living room with her head throbbing relentlessly, she thought a blood vessel may rupture at any moment. As she shambled along, her foot became ensnared by object that escaped her view. Stumbling forward, she caught her balance avoiding a tumble to the floor. Clanking aluminum sent her headache into overdrive as the clatter reverberated within her head. She found Kate’s duffle bag wrapped around her ankle. Four softballs and a metal bat had rolled out of the bag and across the tile floor. She bitterly shoved them back into the bag. I’m not zipping that thing up. Hopefully Dad does the same thing, and then Kate can hear it from him.
    She eased herself onto the couch, grabbing the sofa throw draped across the top. Her two dogs, which she often refers to as the ladies , followed. Gypsy crept onto the couch and lay next to her, while Rogue snuggled next to her feet on the floor. Roxy wrapped the throw around her shoulders and reached for the remote control and lowered the volume.

 
    Dave strolled down Starling Avenue, taking in the last gulp of orange soda from the fountain drink he had purchased at the Fast Time convenience store down the street. The drink sated his thirst, but did little to ward off the blistering heat radiating off the sidewalk and asphalt. The bar was only a couple blocks down and he knew that it would be a satisfying seventy-two degrees in the place, but being cooped up in his studio apartment above the bar all day was taking a toll on him. The same routine day after day—left Dave sure that he’d soon die of boredom.
    He crossed the next block eyeing the park across the street. There were a few joggers and cyclists on concrete pathways, a couple kids tossing a Frisbee on the grass and a woman walking—or make that—being walked by four dogs. He let his mind go as he crossed the street, heading toward the park. He imagined what the lives of the people in the park must be like.
    Since getting back in town a few months ago after being discharged from the Marines, he felt out of place. The downturn of the economy left many of his old stomping grounds closed down. Foreclosure signs blocked the windows of too many businesses and were planted in front yards of homes on nearly every block. Most of the crew that Dave knew in his high school days had moved on, either due to unemployment or their families losing their businesses or homes. Port Steward was his hometown, but