• It was a metal briefcase. The kind that could either carry ice skates or a small fortune in paper money, neatly bundled and stacked together like a box of dominos. In this situation, however, it was most likely carrying the latter. No one carried ice skates in a case handcuffed to their wrist. And it was difficult to imagine the person that the wrist was attached to doing a triple-axel jump in a glittery full-body leotard.

    He was a suit, equipped with a sleek thin cellphone in his opposite hand as well as a pair of intimidating black-tinted glasses below his neatly-combed brows. A slight bulge underneath his suit jacket took the intimidating aura to the next level. Other men wearing the same uniform (sans briefcase) emerged out of the shiny black sedan, and quickly assembled positions around Suit Alpha.

    Alpha rapidly punched the miniscule buttons on his cell with one hand. “Sir. We have arrived with the package.” A nod, and he slapped shut the phone, slipping it into his coat pocket.

    “Let’s go,” he addressed the men behind him.

    The procession of suits headed to the extravagant house on the hill above.

    That extravangant house was, in fact, home to about seventy-five senior citizens, providing them with “assisted living.” Usually the names of nursing homes were flamboyant, an obvious misnomer. However, Hilltop Sanctuary fit the bill of the former privately-owned mansion. Large trees muffled the face of the mansion from the rest of the world, and cobbled pathways wound serenely between them, peppered here and there with tasteful flowers planted behind natural rock borders. The lawn spread out from underneath the foliage like a shiny green tablecloth, neatly clipped and carefully watered.

    The interior of Hilltop was no less classy than the outside. Sunlit lobbys with live plants and overstuffed couches were patronized with gentle folk reading Country Living or playing checkers. Golden oldies crooned out of descreet recessed ceiling speakers, competing with the sound of applause from a game show coming from the TV room.

    At the front desk, a receptionist quietly scribbled notes in a planner, and jumped at the sound of a crash behind her. The sleek pen darted across the page, and she turned to see the culprit.

    A skinny teenage boy in an apron was battling the army of brooms and mops descending upon him from the utility closet.

    “Just stay in, damn it!” It was already his lunch break and he wasn’t going to waste a minute of it wrestling with a mop. With another curse, he forced the door shut, leaving an inevitable doom for the next worker on cleaning duty. He didn’t care. Fishing out his iPod, he slipped the earbuds on and turned up the volume on his rock music to drown out Perry Como.

    Fortunately for Chance, his volunteer status at Hilltop had almost run its course. One more week and no more changing diapers and opening milk cartons. No more mops. No more listening to the senile ramblings and reminiscings of the elderly. Or being addressed as “young man”. During the three months as a volunteer caregiver, Chance had never been called by his first name. It was only “young man” this and “young man” that from the residents.

    Except for Mr. Godley. The old coot was strange, certainly, but at least he talked like a normal person.

    “Chance? That your first or last name?”

    “It’s my first name.” He kicked the brake off on the wheelchair, and slowly turned into the hallway.

    “For crying out loud, Chance! Can’t you go any faster that that?”

    “Sorry sir.”     Sorry for being careful.

    “Damn it, I hate being old. Everyone thinks you’re made of glass or somethin’. Chance!”

    “Yes sir?”

    “Got a girlfriend?”

    “Wha--? Um, no sir.”     Why’s that any of his business, anyway?

    “Why not?”

    “Um, I don’t know sir.”

    “And stop calling me sir. Just call me Ray.”

    “Um, sure.”