Frank hobbled out the house at 8:46 into another January morning, package in hand. His feet slid and glid on the frozen dew which decorated the path to the gate. He kept one hand on the fence for stability. He did not want to sprain the other foot as well.

He finally arrived at the Post Office at 9:03, where he nodded to June washing the windows, which he thought was a silly activity for such a cold morning. She shot him a quizzical grunt. He shuffled to the counter at 9:04 and handed over the package. At 9:05 a gruff lady came up from behind and put a gun to his head. He did not know why. He reacted quickly, out of fear and confusion, and ducked to the side. She fired, but wasn’t quick enough. Frank was fine. Daryl, behind the counter, was not. The gruff woman fled.