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As always, the loudest sound in the house was the ticking of the small wooden clock. Just above the family photos on the wall to the right of the television. It had not moved, just like every other trinket and piece of furniture, probably in years. Decades, maybe.

That was reassurance that the pill bottle had not run off either.

Not that it mattered. Annie was still napping in her bedroom and would not be bothered by a little rummaging around. He could come and go as he pleased, so long as he kept the roses well enough for her to enjoy during that one lucid hour in the afternoon.

So, he would go ahead and get his fix now, and later he could whisper in her ear about his darned backache and she would offer some more herself. Sister Annie always took care of her congregation.

Maybe I’m a bastard for duping her, but I reckon God left all us here to fend for ourselves.

A shadow of remorse passed like a cloud drifting on a heavy wind, barely noticed as noise in the numbness of another day bathed ironically in sun.