He pulls into the large strip mall parking lot. They have set up a carnival in the south-west lot, probably a deperate attempt to attract patrons. He carefully parks his 1989 Oldsmobile, Supreme in a half empty row. He opens his door to check the position of the vehicle against the painted white lines, backs out, and perfects the angle of the aged but well cared for car. He leaves the keys in the ignition.

Rodger Maverly has never really left Emporia. Never did he have a reason. Seems, though, that everyone he knows has found their way out. He can smell the stench of funnel cakes and corn dogs. He can hear the wavering tunes playing as children scream with joy. Mike Huckins and his family walk by. "Hey Rodge!". With beads of sweat covering his forhead inside his stagnant automobile, Rodger lifts an arm and cracks a smile. He watches as they venture into the sea of balloons. With out letting his waving arm drop, he raises his right hand and presses the cool barrel deep into his temple