Charley Hooper is dead. The trouble with being dead is that no one tells you that you're dead. Oh yeah, he saw the bright light at the end of the tunnel, but assumed it was a train. He heard celestial music, but in this neighborhood you could hear just about any sort of music, at least it was better than Rap.
Charley lived alone in a seniors-only retirement trailer park. This morning Charley was in a good mood, for the first time in years he wasn't racked with pains. This he attributed to the new pain pills Doc Hollister had prescribed.
Charley shook some cat food into Poe's dish, and checked his water. Poe, the black cat that had showed up a year earlier, rather than rub up against Charley's leg, stood across the small room with the hair on his back raised. Charley took no notice.
Charley put the coffee on to perk, and went outside to get the newspaper from the front deck. The widow Jameson was power walking, like she did every morning, passed his trailer. He suspected she liked him, alot. "Good morning Thelma," he called out. "Humm," he said, when she didn't answer. Wonder what's got her tail in a twist.