The bar smelled of stale tobacco and spilled alcohol, and the floors hadn't been mopped since the last friendly visit from the health inspector. It was his kind of place. Jack stepped in from the cool night air and inhaled the bar air. The scent spoke of late nights and the attemped drowning of life's sorrows, and the jukebox played a slow country western ballad. The mood couldn't have been more perfect. As he stepped into the dim lighting of the few hanging lamps suspended from the rafters of the place, Jack drew a few unfriendly looks. A police officer usually meant the fun was about to end, not to mention a major buzzkill. The looks were averted, however, when the patrons realized that Johnny law was on break. Jack had his uniform jacket unbuttoned, and his sidearm belt and bulletproof vest were removed. Jack walked over to the jukebox and deposited some coins in the slot. He sat down on one of the bar stools just as the opening chords of "Hotel California" began to play.

Tonight had been long, that was for sure. Jack sighed as he flagged down the bartender. "Give me your cheapest longneck, please." He spoke with a slight southern drawl. He worked the eight to four shift. First thing, 8:15 PM, not five minutes after he'd arrived in his patrol area, he got called on a teen suicide. He was still the rookie on the Dematire Police Force, so he always got stuck with the body pickups. She must have been sixteen. She'd gone on a marijuana and vodka binge, taken her father's revolver, put it in her mouth, and pulled the trigger. She must've been sixteen. The girl had left a note on her dresser. Said she couldn't take it anymore. Jack shook his head as the bartender put an ice cold brew on the bar in front of him. It seemed so pointless. Jack had seen people in so much worse conditions who hadn't given up. Junkies who lived their entire lives in two states. They were either deathly sick, or high. He had been angered at the stupidity of this girl, who had her whole life ahead of her, and just threw it away because she "Couldn't take it any more". He guessed he just took out his anger on his next call. A junkie, shot up on heroin, was jumping around and creating a general racket in the top of an apartment complex. The junkie had a knife, and that was all the excuse Jack needed to take out his frustrations. In the end, the junkie ended up in the hospital. That's when it happened. He wasn't sure exactly what it was, but somthing wasn't right at Mercy hospital. Jack looked around the room. Not to many friendly faces. Not too many faces at all. Jack sighed and went back to his drink. If only there were someone to talk to......