The next morning, the curtain he had yanked open the night before couldn't keep out the blazing sunlight. Shielding his eyes from the harsh rays, the sheriff slowly woke up, lifting a hand to block the light. His mind blank, he glanced at the hunting rifle, then turned to hang it back on the wall above the bed.
He had a severe illness, but few people knew. Most thought he was merely a hopeless drunk who would never wake up. Only those familiar with him understood he used alcohol as medicine.
He rubbed his face, the crust in his eyes scratching his cheeks painfully. Expressionless, he walked over to the wardrobe mirror, diligently changed into his uniform symbolizing justice and righteousness, pinned on his badge, saluted the mirror with perfect form, and left the bedroom, leaving the house.
