Harold was unceremoniously  thrown as one would hurl a frozen side of beef into the side door of a dirty, unkempt white work van.  He felt quite a bit of pain as he landed atop a spare tire and a heavy plastic bin of assorted tools.  "That's gonna leave a mark" thought Harold as he rubbed his aching shoulder.  He felt his body being pushed aside as the robber who had tossed him into the van climbed into the van beside him.  There were no back seats in the van, and it appeared from Harold's view that there were never any seats to begin with.  He thought about sitting up, but decided it wasn't worth the effort.  Perhaps if he stayed in a prone position the robbers would think he was dead.  Then what would they do with his carcass?  Harold shuddered more than slightly.

He peered around cautiously, as if he did not want the robbers to know he was sizing up the situation.  The driver of the van was a tall woman who was a brunette in her younger days.  The driver looked so familiar to Harold, but his mind would not reveal the name.

"How's my little boy doing?" rang in his ears, but he couldn't comprehend why a phrase from a dream would pop into his head now.

It dawned on him with a flash of cerebral fireworks that the driver of the van in which he was an unwilling passenger was Rita, the bank teller, the diner waitress.  Rita.  Harold was confused yet again.

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