In the rather tattered living room of his second-floor apartment, he sat quite still in an old red leather chair that had once belonged to his grandfather. Right at the top of the show came Todd, of course, then a few more comments by the anchor, followed by the general news, weather—a Minnesota obsession, and rightly so—and finally sports. As he sat there in the low and worn chair, his fingers rubbing on the cracked leather of the arms, as the news concluded and moved into another episode of M*A*S*H, which seemed stuck on eternal repeat, Rawlins thought how pissed he was. How totally pissed. He picked up the remote, clicked off the TV, and walked over to the phone. He glanced at his watch, knew of course that it was too soon for Todd to have made it home—which was exactly what he wanted, because after all they weren't supposed to be talking—and then, unable to stop himself, dialed the number he knew better than his own. After four rings Todd's Voice Mail picked up. When prompted for a message, Rawlins took a deep breath.
