Jimmy stood before the door, the very one he walked through thousands of times. The emerald-green paint around the handle and hinges had chipped away, but the glass was spotless, and the golden lettering declared to all that it was O’Brien’s Tobacco Shop. His hand trembled as he reached for the brass knob, worn smooth from decades of use. Jimmy flexed his hand, cleared his throat, and reached out again. Why was it so hard to simply open the door? A twist and a push. Yet his hand would not obey the command.
He set his bag on the ground and pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket. Cupping his hands together he lit it and took a long and soothing drag. The street was quiet as it was still too early for people to be shopping. He straightened his uniform, ran a hand through his hair, and deb
