“How ’bout a cigarette, Dave? They’re menthol, good ol’ Lucky Strikes,” Delilah said, waving her hand around my face. I had become very distracted in my thoughts and went into my often dissociated state of mind. The only thing I knew was that I was missing something deep down. Something was bugging me, but I did not know what exactly it was. This was essentially a repeat of my first situation, except I didn’t have any clues to help me this time.
“I’m okay, thank you,” I said, smiling awkwardly.
“You look rather upset; what’s wrong?” she asked, concerned.
“It’s stupid. Let’s skip that subject,” I replied, shaking my head.
“Please, Dave?” she asked with pleading eyes.
“This police officer blamed a soup kitchen being burned down on the Jewish people. He said that Mr. Ford had the ri
