A week had now slipped by, the kind where days blurred without much warning. The city had been loud in its own quiet way—sirens in the distance, the sound of restless news anchors, citizens and now this: the Green Thorns case declared over.
The TV in the living room of the Bright residence was doing its best to sound victorious.
"…no longer a threat to the city," the commissioner, Gordon Bateman, was saying, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the mayor and, oddly enough, the state governor. All three were smiling for the cameras. Between their polished speeches and practiced nods, the agenda was as thick as the suits they wore.
At the Bright Penthouse, breakfast was underway in the dining area.
Don sat at the head of the table, plain white shirt, black sweatpants, plate nearly empty. A small black notebook rested in front of him. His pen scratched steadily against the paper, pausing only for a bite of toast or a sip from his coffee.
