Lying on the stairs, unconscious from smoke inhalation, Victor appeared to be dead. His body was limp and unflinching. His muscles softened and relaxed to the point of lumpy flesh. He had tried to make it to his upstairs bedroom to retrieve his photos, letters and writings, everything he had left of Anna, but the smoke overcame him. As he lost consciousness the darkness embraced him like huge welcoming arms helping to quiet his overactive frontal lobe. He hadn’t been this rested in over a decade, since his wife passed of cancer in ’77. Fuck, he missed Anna. She had been his world. His purpose. There had been no one since. He could remember so many close memories of them together. Before and after their son Carl was born…