William stared at the empty page, hating it intensely. He didn’t understand why the words wouldn’t come. His fingers gripped the pen too tightly, impotent against the lack of instructions from up stairs.

What to say…

A breeze fought through the curtains, lifting the unsupported edge of the paper. Like it wanted to get away from the words about to take up residence. William almost used his whiskey glass as a paper weight, but thought better of it. He didn’t want the paper soiled by a ring of cheap whiskey. Instead, he used the .45 auto out of his holster.

The window allowed in the light of the Earth’s only child, causing slight shadows of the sycamore outside to play across the desk. The paper just sat there, pale and reluctant.

So, with a flick of the wrist, William scratched out his signature, just as he had done on all of those checks over the last three years. And finally, with a grumble, he carefully set down the pen and collected the gun.

A whiskey-stained tear blighted the paper before the end.