The weekend was unfolding like any other of the hundreds of times he’d made this trip. Lansing to Detroit, long stretches of humming asphalt, farm fields interspersed with small farm towns, medium towns with a factory or three, nondescript shopping outlets and truck stops.

He crossed the Bridge to Canada, breezed through customs and bought a quart of grain alcohol, a bottle of water, and three sandwiches at a convenience store.

The sun was just saying goodbye over the horizon when he reached the warehouse and used the newest keycard to get in the gate. He pulled up to the quonset hut, punched in the number then allowed the red light to scan his thumb. Then it was go inside, take off the stocking cap and bandage on the back of his head, swallow the pill, scrub the wound at the base of his skull with alcohol and a cloth from the closet, lay on the medical table and fall asleep.

“See you in three days,” he slurred, mouth full of the second sandwich as his eyes fluttered closed.
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