Forty years ago, Greg Keeler walked out of Ronnie's bar. It was a clear night, with a light breeze, so he decided to enjoy the rare weather and walk home.

In those days, the city was a different place. The sounds of the night were much calmer. If you walked close enough to a first-story window where a man and his family lived, you could hear one thing: absolute silence. A sound like that was music to a family man like Greg Keeler. He knew what it meant: the children had been put to bed, and the mother and father were sound asleep in their own beds.

Greg lived with his wife and two children in a small house near the outskirts of town. He worked long days at a pawn shop about ten miles away. It wasn't the first job you thought of when you heard the phrase "honest living", but it was enough to support his family, and that's all he cared about.

One day, a man came in to pawn a ring that obviously did not belong to him. The man had long, brown hair, and his clothing was soiled and faded. When he wasn't looking, Greg leaned forward and saw that one of his boots had a rather large hole in the front. He didn't feel sorry for him, though. Greg was no idiot. This man wasn't a victim of bad luck. He was a junkie.

That's not why Greg gave him so little money for the very nice-looking ring, though. The ring may have looked golden, but it was a fake. Someone (and Greg was very sure it wasn't the man trying to sell it to him) had painted an extremely dull ring with a very expensive paint.

Probably a cheap husband with a stupid wife, Greg thought, and frowned at the idea.

When the man finally stopped yelling long enough for Greg to explain to him why the ring was worth so little, he took a long look into his eyes. After that, he took the meager amount he was offered and muttered something as he walked out of the door.

Greg didn't give him another thought until he was about a block from his house on that clear, breezy night and he realized someone was following him.

Whoever it was didn't care too much about being seen. Just enough to duck into an alley when Greg paused to light a cigarette and get a quick look at his long-haired stalker. No doubt about it. It was the man with the cheap ring. And from the quick glimpse of the street lamp's reflection, Greg could tell that he was carrying a big knife.

"Shit on a brick," Greg said, as he took a puff from his cigarette and let the seriousness of the situation settle in on him. He couldn't go into his house. It was completely out of the question. The man following him was desperate. For what? Money, probably. No telling what he might do to get to Fiona's jewelry. Fiona. And the kids. He had to think of the kids.

Calmly, Greg threw his cigarette to the ground, stepped on it, and calmly walked past his own house, thanking God that they didn't have a porch, that his son wasn't standing at the window to greet him when he got home.

Greg had figured it all out while he smoked the cigarette. After he passed his house, he stuck his hands in his pocket as he crossed the street, then pretended to trip on the curb. His driver's license, complete with his full name and address, slipped out of his hand and down the sewer grate.

The man behind him was getting closer. Greg could smell his breath. It was a familiar smell. Something from years ago. The kitchen, where Randal would come in, tracking mud onto the linoleum with his paws.

Dog food? Greg thought, and he snickered. He was smiling when the man threw him against a brick building and then spun him around.

That's what I like to think, anyway. I like to believe his last thoughts were of his childhood. His dog. The one who lived five years longer than any dog should. By the time they buried him, grandpa was on his way to college. And I know for a fact the assailant didn't take his driver's liscense. They found Greg's wallet in his left pocket. No money was missing.

The police never did find out what happened. There was no sign of a visible struggle. They told grandma that his wounds were such that he died without much suffering. Grandma was a strong woman. She didn't cry when they pulled back the sheet and she identified him. The only question she asked was, where did they find the body?

When they told her, she just shook her head. "That son of a bitch". Ask Lt. Francis today (he's retired) and he'll still swear that she was smiling.

Greg Keeler the first gave his life to protect his family. He walked into the dark for the sake of what he loved, and he died alone.

Forty years later, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, with my hand behind Julie's head. I stared at her for hours, her perfect chest rising and falling. Finally, I got up, put on my clothes, grabbed the gun, and walked down to Ronnie's bar on the corner of 8th and Johnston.