Out of the blue, they canned him.

All he wanted to do was shuffle home to his miserable apartment and sulk in his lounger. The one that was the color of a turd and had stuffing poking out both arms. It had been sitting at the end of a random driveway with a "free" sign. Though it smelled strongly of cats, it was the best piece of furniture he'd ever owned.

He'd stick it in the bed of his rusty truck when the landlady kicked him out. She had the fighting spirit of a wolverine with its head stuck in a jar. She could take his place but she wasn't taking his chair.

His favorite gas station was only a block away from his building. He had enough left over from his prior paycheck for a tank of gas and a few snacks.

Gambling had always been one of his vices. He bought three scratch cards on a whim. If he could turn one dollar into five enough times, maybe he could keep the old bat from evicting him.

The girl behind the counter wasn't a day over twenty. She had teal highlights in her blond hair and dark rings under her eyes. She kept snapping her gum in time to the song on the radio.

"Miss? Will you check my ticket?"

She shrugged and tucked her magazine under the counter, holding the bar code to the scanner.

Her eyes widened.

"Wow, Mister. It's your lucky day. You just won a hundred dollars!"

His chest puffed out in self-importance. It was more money than he'd ever had at one time. By the time she was done counting the bills, there were only a few bedraggled ones left in the register.

He didn't notice when she slipped the unsigned ticket into the pages of her magazine.

The next night, he splurged and bought himself a steak sandwich at the corner pub. He was savoring every bite...until he saw the headline on the muted TV.

HIGH SCHOOL DROPOUT WINS $100,000 PRIZE.

He recognized those teal highlights and acne scars. The girl from the gas station was blushing and beaming for the camera. He sent his takeout container flying in his rage.

The building where reporters had conducted the interview was just a few blocks from his own apartment.

One of his neighbors was bringing in her groceries when he stormed down the hall, muttering under his breath.

"That little thief. I'll kill her!"

He woke the next morning with the worst hangover of his life...and half a dozen wary cops standing over his bed.

There was blood on his hands. He didn't remember the source.

He did remember the girl. She'd tried to slam the door in his face. He had the bruises on his foot to prove it.

But they'd come to an agreement...hadn't they? Her place had been a disaster that made him feel almost rich by comparison. He wasn't a heartless man and she wasn't a bad kid. She'd always been nice when he paid for gas. He was sure they'd agreed to split the profits. His head was pounding like three dueling rock bands and he couldn't think straight.

One of the cops was saying she was dead. It took a while for the words to sink in.

She'd been alive when he left.

He was sure of it.

He was a deflated balloon when they hoisted him to his feet. Then he saw the cameras, the protest signs, the leering faces.

"What are you looking at? They've got the wrong guy, I tell you! I can't stand the sight of blood. I tried to do something good for once! I tried to help her but she's the one who took everything from me! I'm the real victim here!"

The press delighted in his statement. His court-appointed attorney did not.

It was the sight of that impressive young man in a suit, one who had never known the fears that come from poverty, that finally made him break down and cry.

He knew that in the eyes of the public, he was already condemned.

I owe you my freedom. Maybe you professional types aren't all bad.

I hear you're the one who does all the real work.

I thought we had an understanding. I could no more harm you than I could grow wings and fly.

Your Honor...

*bows*

I understand you had a job to do. I'd sure hate to be on your bad side!

They shouldn't just throw the book at you...they should throw the whole Library of Congress!