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"Harry, you're gonna miss it. The news comes on at 7."

"I'll be right there, Henrietta." Harry milled about the garage muttering under his breath, "Gosh dang women, always on my jock. Always telling me where to go and when to go. I just can't take it anymore."

"Harry, it's on. We always watch the news. You better hurry."

"Right there, Dear."

Harry rushed into the living room of the tiny Craftman's cottage in Mississippi. His hands were still full of grease from the carburator he had just been working on.

The news had just started, and a slick looking anchor started his nightly spiel.

"We've just got in, a young boy has been shot. We do have footage of it and we are going to shoot it. Luckily, there was someone taking cell phone footage, and here it is. We warn you, it is graphic."

"Those police are at it again." Harry went to the kitchen to wash his hands.

"Don't you dare wash those dirty mits in my kitchen sink, Harry."

"No, no, of course not." He retreated back into the living room.

"Here is the gunman, he was a young child, about 15, and here are the police approaching him.

"Harry, that looks like Jack."

"Whoa, wait a minute, that is Jack." Harry was stuck in his tracks.

Not three seconds later did they see their son gunned down right where he stood by five police officers.

Henrietta fell to the floor sobbing. Harry wanted to console her but he found that


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