He enters through the back door off the kitchen of his West Albany bungalow with his briefcase in one hand and the daily mail in the other. Making his way across the yellow linoleum floor, he enters into a living room that should sport a couch, and maybe an easy chair for watching the big LCD flat-screen mounted to the far wall. But instead, it contains a hospital bed that’s been reinforced with extra aluminum rods for stability to prevent sudden collapse under the great weight of its occupant.
Making a quick check on the bed and said occupant, his wife, Wendy, he goes back into the kitchen where he slaps the mail down on the table, opens the refrigerator, and pulls out a can of beer.
“Aren’t you even going to say hello, Pumpkin?” Wendy says, her voice sad but sprinkled with sarcasm. “
