Harry sighs and lays his pen down, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Allowing his eyes and mind to focus on his surroundings, for the first time in hours it seems, he realizes that the cafe is almost empty. It's dark now, and the storm has picked up. He glances over at the front counter, where his sister is bent over her homework and chewing on the end of her pencil. It's a nasty habit, but quieter than the constant tapping she would normally do. Their mom is in the back, going over the day's sales.

Harry looks down at his journal, glazing over everything he's written in the past- he glances down at his watch -three hours. All that time and work, and still, something seems off. He skims through every word and letter he'd sacrificed his poor hand to, only now feeling the severe cramping in his wrist and fingers.

"My dad was a great guy, that's what everyone told me at the funeral...they concluded that it was a setup...some angry junkies taking revenge for him ruining their unlawful lifestyles...even now, with his memory turning fuzzy, I still miss the feeling of his hugs and the sound of his laugh."

Very sweet and endearing, a perfect summary and detailing of his father's heroic lifestyle. It was sure to bring many to tears at the tenth anniversary of the death of Sheriff David Robins. For the past three months, Harry had made it his personal goal to write the perfect speech in memorial of his dad. And even after three months, he still finds himself unable to truly tell his dad's story. Something is off, something about the puzzle pieces not quite aligning. Maybe it has to do with the fact that they'd never found the sheriff's murderer, or that Harry distinctly remembers his father's constant absence in the months leading up to his demise.

Whatever it is, it's giving Harry a headache. He sighs, even more deeply than before, slouching his body down in his seat. Tipping his head back, he begins to count the ceiling tiles for what feels like the fifth time today.

'Guess this is failed draft number...6? Or 7? Can't even remember now.'

He stretches his arms out and looks at his watch- passed down from his dad and grandfather - and sees that he has another couple of hours before the cafe closes and his mom is ready to leave. The joys of owning an almost 24-hour cafe. Plenty of time and quiet to get something done, but also plenty of time to wallow in the failures of not getting anything done.

Harry straightens himself out and sits up. He picks up his pencil, turns the page, and begins to start draft number 7 or 8 of his speech.