Sanctuary: Sanctuary, #1

By Paul Ashlin

Tom has a perfect life, perfect wife, perfect job blah, blah, blah. In reality, Tom has got problems, lots of problems. Tom is more like a piñata, getting it from multiple sides with a big f'ing stick. I could reveal a few major points on the story to compel you to read, but what fun is that? How about I tell you the epigraph? 

        Every decision we make radiates outward like ripples in a pond.  And we think, it is but a choice we have made. Is it?

Or, how about, I tell you what a joy this story was a joy to write. I'd wake up every day, anticipating what was going to happen next. It's an honor to bring you this story and these characters — I fell in love with all of them, warts and all.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Ashlin
• Release date: Jan 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201215613

Book preview

One

Homecoming

The truck engine sings out a dull hum as Tom drives a two-lane road, thinking, What an awful night. Others would agree, especially his wife Kathy, who stares out the window — despondent — the silence is deafening.

You see, Tom coaches high school football in a small Texas town, and tonight his team played for a playoff spot — it didn’t go well — what an awful night. In the closing minutes of the game, his trusted quarterback, attempting a routine pass, fumbled the ball. Squirt. A freakish fumble. That fumble sealed their fate and the game — it was game over. How is it that game over means your life is over? Crazy to think of it from that perspective, but that’s how Tom sees it.

Tom strokes around his mouth, where his goatee used to be, contemplating tonight's meltdown, stuck in a hell of sorts as he replays snippets of the game. His internal chatter bounces like a red rubber ball between two walls.

Jesus, I’m such an idiot. What was I thinking? What was I supposed to call? It was for a playoff spot, for Christ’s sake. Shit, a fumble. Fall on the fucking ball. Maybe I should have called something safer. Safer? Right. Maybe I should start a new career? Yeah, a new career. I like the sound of that. I wonder what it would be like to teach college? Tom glances at Kathy. Look at her. She looks harmless right now, but when she awakens— shit, won’t that be delightful? Why didn’t I call a safer play? You can’t win the big one by playing it safe. Play it safe, and you might as well just go home. How long can Kathy and I go on like this? Dammit, Conway, why’d you fumble the ball? Man, if this had just happened in the first quarter, or the third, we could have fixed it. Crap. The townspeople are going to make my life hell. Shit, a fumble. A goddamn fumble. You can do everything right, but then that one freaky thing is your undoing. Why in the hell did I ever decide to come to Texas? Why indeed?

Tom strokes around the mouth, reflecting on when Paul Johnson came knocking, offering this opportunity; come to Big Springs, coach a team with a rich history of making the playoffs, and receive a significant boost in income for doing it. He couldn’t believe the offer. Studying the team’s impressive postseason history, he was in awe. What the f—? They only missed the playoffs twice in twenty-five years? Can that be right? That has to be a mistake. How can such a small school have such an amazing track record of postseason play? As he researched, it appeared to be true, so Tom plotted. What an opportunity. I could rack up a few good years in Big Springs and parlay it into a college coaching position. How sweet would that be?

What Tom didn’t know was this rich history of winning had spoiled the fan base. They had zero tolerance for losing; winning was the only thing acceptable. This intolerance had been simmering all season, and tonight’s loss brought things to a boil — what an awful night.

God, the townspeople will make my life a living hell, and then Kathy piling on too. Jesus. I’m not going to hear the end of this. I can hear her droning on and on. She’s so nasty anymore. What happened? She used to be so nice. Sweet. God, she was so pretty when we met. Her beautiful brown hair. Those eyes. Well, that person is gone. Her nastiness makes her look ugly. How’s that possible? Maybe I could take a trip? I hear the Caribbean is lovely this time of year. Tom is a man on an island, so why not go to one — for real?

Tom's two allies in the town are the man who hired him, Paul Johnson, and Kathy. Anymore, Kathy has become more a problem than an asset — she’s creating a lot of pressure. Their marriage isn’t on life support, but it limps along, and tonight’s loss isn't helping — more pressure. Tom thought the move to Big Springs would also help their marriage. Boy, how wrong could one person be? He feels like he's juggling chainsaws.

He glances at Kathy. I really need to get away. Maybe I can drop her off at the house and get a motel room? Tom snickers.

Kathy’s head snaps. What’s so damn funny, Thomas? He knows when she calls him Thomas, what follows will not be pleasant. I didn’t see anything funny tonight. Enlighten me.

Damn. Here we go.

What? What was that?

Oh, nothing.

No, really. You’re over there snickering like a little schoolgirl.

Why are you so mean?

You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding, Kathy remarks.

Well—

You know those assholes are gathering with their torches and pitchforks, planning something. I don’t know what, but I’ll bet it's a doozy.

C’mon Kathy—

Don’t ‘c'mon’ me. Why the fuck did you drag our asses down here? To get ahead? How the hell are your career goals working out for you? Huh? We were doing fine in Ohio.

That’s not true, and you know it. So, the people in Texas take their football a little more seriously.

Ha, ha. That’s a good one. These people are insane. Kathy returns to staring out the window. I sometimes wish someone would just put me out of my misery,

You don’t mean that, do you?

Why not? I have only one friend here, and when you lose a game, I can’t even go out of the goddamn house. I’m a prisoner in that shithole-of-a-box that’s our home.

Your mouth is getting worse.

I know . . . Who the fuck cares how I talk?

I do. You never used to cuss, ever.

I know, she replies with a breathy voice. It’s habit-forming.

I’d wish you’d stop . . . Look, let's just get through the year, and we’ll go back to Ohio.

The rest of the year? Really? You still have to teach, so that’s like what, six, seven months?

Yeah, something like that, Tom replies.

Are you having fun? C’mon, you’re in hell too, aren’t you?

Well—

C’mon Tom, let's just flush this place.

You know I can’t do that. I signed—

Oh Jesus, don’t say that again. Oooh, you and that goddamn contract. Why the hell didn’t Conway just fall on that goddamn ball? Kathy asks.

That would have solved a whole bunch of problems, but it is what it is.

Christ, I hate when you say that . . . Sometimes, I think nothing bothers you.

Oh, it bothers me. Believe me, it bothers me, Tom replies, turning onto their street. But you can’t let them see it gets to you, cause then it’s like blood in the water.

Kathy replies, crying, I can’t do that. No matter how much I try.

Now, c’mon, don’t cry.

"I don’t know how much more of this shit I can take, Kathy blubbers, pawing through her purse, pulling out a tissue. She wipes her eyes, blows her nose, and sighs, regaining her composure. You know, they all hate you. You do know that, don’t you?"

I’m not sure that’s— Tom sees a block party by their house, a huge crowd spilling into the street. What the . . .? Tom mumbles, punching the gas pedal.

Everyone is having a grand time trashing the house. A voice cries out, Oh crap, here he comes. The truck flies at fifty miles an hour, bearing down on the crowd.

Kathy braces herself against the dashboard and grabs the handle over the door, screaming, Jesus Christ. The truck bounces off the cement gutter — taking air, descending on the mob. This shit just got real.

Upon re-entry, the truck mows down a freshly planted real estate sign, stating, For Sale by Owner. The truck bumper fractures the wooden post — the wooden post shatters the driver's side headlight, creating an explosion of wood and glass. The sign launches toward the house, coming to rest against a shrub. The truck kicks up a dust cloud as it lands in the middle of the front yard; the dust floats like morning fog. The mob scatters.

Tom throws open the truck door ― a crazy man emerges ― chasing anyone he thinks he can catch, missing, tumbling to the ground. He resets, getting to his feet, setting his sights on another target — tripping, planting himself face first.

People scramble, searching for a car, any car, or a truck bed to escape. Car doors slam, sounding like machine-gun fire. Revving engines and squealing tires make it sound like a raceway. The sound fades, leaving a lingering smell of burnt rubber.

Tom hammers his fist into the ground, screaming, Fuck! Raising his head, he watches the taillights fade into the darkness.

Kathy stands over him. What the hell were you thinking? She walks away. Sometimes you’re a stupid man, Thomas. Somebody’s gotta clean up this shit, and it ain’t going to be me.

Damn, Tom mumbles, rolling to his back. I’m so tired of this shit.

Kathy screams, Oh my god!

Tom sits up. What now?

Kathy stands on the porch, stabbing at her purse, trembling, repeating, They’ve killed them, they’ve killed them. Tom sees it — the shattered front window. Kathy cries, Oh my god, oh my god. She’s breathing heavy, trying to catch her breath. Her hands tremble — her keys fall to the ground.

Getting to his feet, Tom swoops in to help, but she’s faster, snatching the keys, jamming them into the lock, twisting the knob, busting through the door.

Kathy races through the house, conducting a room-to-room search. Oh my god— They’ve taken the kids.

Tom follows, remarking, They’re here . . . Somewhere.

They call out. Every room they enter is empty. She pushes open their bedroom door.

She gasps, Oh my god. The babysitter and kids are huddling in the far corner.

The kids jump up, yelling, Mommy, mommy. Peetie and Amber run into their mother’s arms.

The sitter blurts out, Are they gone? They’re gone? Right?

Yes, Tom replies. Yes, they’re gone.

The sitter blubbers, I thought they were gonna kill us.

Kathy asks the kids, Are you okay? She squeezes, strokes, and kisses them.

What happened? Tom asks the sitter.

It was a gang, she snivels. They drove up and started throwing things at the house. They threw a rock or something through the front window. What’s happening?

I’m not sure, Tom replies.

It’s those pigs again, Kathy says. It’s probably the same bunch that burned the tire tracks in the lawn the night you lost the Green River game.

Now you don’t know that for sure, Tom replies. Tom appears calm, but inside he’s raging.

Why are you defending them? Kathy asks.

I’m not. It just—

My brilliant husband tried to catch them, Kathy says. It's good he didn’t because they would be dead right now, and they’d be carting his ass to jail. Tom's eyes dart between Kathy and the sitter. He glares at Kathy; she gets the message.

The sitter whines, I want to go. Can I go now?

Sure, I’ll take you home, Tom replies.

The sitter bolts out of the room without saying goodbye. Tom and Kathy lock eyes; they know she’s never coming back. Tom follows the sitter. They move through the living room. Gazing to his left, he sees a brick. He freezes.

That’s it, the thing they threw through the window, the sitter says.

Tom analyzes the path the brick followed to be lodged in the wall.

My god, the force, the emotion it would have taken to do this . . . Damn . . . I need to get the sitter home. Tom yells, Kathy, call the sheriff. I’ll be back shortly. And don’t touch anything.

Kathy races out of the bedroom. Tom, wait. I’ll take the sitter. You should stay here with the kids. What if they come back? Tom couldn’t argue with that. Kathy yells from the front yard. Your truck is running.

Two

The Crime Scene

Turning off the truck engine, Tom reaches under the seat for his flashlight. He walks the yard like an investigator at a crime scene. He inspects the truck’s broken light. Damn, I’ll need a new headlight, and shit, I really screwed up the fender. Well, it’s not too bad. But I’ll bet it will cost a pretty penny to fix .

He’s surveying the signpost’s fragments, noticing how many are sticking in the ground like mini spears. It’s crazy I didn’t fall on one of those and impale myself. I don’t remember hitting this sign, but it must be what broke the headlight. He examines the distance from the curb to the truck. Kathy’s right. Sometimes I’m not very bright. What was I thinking? Looking at the lawn, he gives up trying to count tire tracks. Did every vehicle in Big Springs drive across this damn thing? I’m going to need a new lawn.

His flashlight brushes across the sign, resting against the shrub. The sign, intact, stating, For Sale by Owner. Tom pauses. Who in the world would be sick enough to do this? That’s a stupid question. Somehow, someway, I need to get the hell out of this town.

Back inside the house, Tom stares at the brick embedded in the drywall. A freak of nature, breaking the laws of physics, frozen in time. Tom is a man of math and statistics. Damn, what are the odds on this one? If I didn’t see this with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. Here’s a symbol of the town’s contempt for me— at least some of them.

Tom recalls the other nights like this one. At first, it was small mischievous acts like egging the house and cars, prank calls late at night, simple things. Once, someone burned tire tracks into the lawn, but that was the worst. This — the window — the brick — is this an escalation? What does this mean? Is this an act of war? Tom didn't know what to think. Whatever it means, it’s not good.

Reflecting on his journey to Big Springs, one question nags at him. Would he do it again? He never thought his family would be in danger. Football is important to Tom, but the people of Big Springs are testing that notion. Red lights flash, bouncing off the walls, interrupting his daydream — it’s the sheriff. Tom moves to the front door, seeing Sam emerge from the car.

What’s goin’ on, coach? Is the fanbase getting unruly? Sam says, letting out a deep, bellowing laugh. Tom steps out onto the porch. Sam, a big guy with a large belly, loves to laugh.

Can you run your siren? I’m not sure everyone in the neighborhood knows you’re here.

Oh shoot. Sorry, Sam reaches through the window, shutting off the lights. Sorry, coach. He approaches. That was a helluva game tonight. The whole town’s talkin’ about it. Sam’s eye catches the broken glass from the front window. What’s the . . .? He draws his flashlight, illuminating the window and then the yard. This place looks like hell, son. What the Sam Hill is the truck doing in the front yard?

Oh, it gets better.

Then this? They tore the shit out of y’all’s lawn and broke the winda. And it gets better?

Oh yeah.

Damn, Tom. Who the hell did this?

You know.

C’mon Tom, I’ve been sheriff of this town for a long time. A long time and I’ve never seen anything like this.

When I came home, I must’ve chased off fifty of ‘em.

What did they throw at the winda— a rock?

A brick.

A what? A brick, you say?

Tom replies, Yeah, come inside. It’s embedded in the wall.

Say what? I hope you aren’t pissing on my leg tellin’ me it’s rainin’.

Moving inside the house, Tom points to the brick. There, in the wall.

Holy mother, Mary and Joseph. Ya gotta be shittin’ me.

Can you believe this shit?

Damn, son, Sam squats, inspecting. My God, I’ve never seen anything like this. Look at how it’s embedded in the wall. It’s like it was made that way. Damn. Sam studies the trajectory of the window to the brick. Sam stands up. Damn, son, this isn’t right. I know they've been given y’all a hard time and all, but this could’ve killed someone.

Tell me about it. Sam, my kids were in this room when it happened.

Oh boy, some people just don’t have lives. I’m real sorry about this. Okay, let's get the boys from the county to see if we can get some fingerprints. Has anyone touched anything?

No, no.

Okay, we’ll see if we can match any of those tire tracks out there in the front yard.

That might be hard, but they were burning rubber when they left, so they might be able to get somethin’ from the street.

Did you recognize any of them?

You know, I was so angry. I don’t remember much. Hell, I don’t even remember hitting that sign out front.

What is that anyway?

A ‘for sale by owner’ sign.

Y’all fixin’ to move?

No. I told you before. You should have taken a harder line. Shit, now I need a guard around here. In my own house. Christ. What am I going to do? I’ve got a contract to teach until the end of the year. Do I just leave? Hide my kids? Force my family to live somewhere else while I finish the year?

I’m sure it would make some folks very happy if y’all just left. But I’ve said it for years, it’s just a damn game.

I hear you. I’ve been telling myself that all night.

Are we definitely out of the postseason?

Sam, it would take an act of God to get us in now.

I reckon y’all won’t have to go through this anymore this year.

What are you, kidding? They’re going to harass me until I quit.

They don’t want you gone. They just want you to win. It seems to be all these people in these parts live for. I’ll have the street patrolled more.

Three

Rebirth

Fall on the fucking ball! Tom wakes — sweating. Great, now I’m being haunted by the fumble. He checks the clock — 7:30. Damn. It’s late. What day is it? Oh yeah, Saturday. I wish I didn’t have to do that final meeting today. What the hell was I thinking when I scheduled it? I can just hear Pete questioning every decision I made during the game. He can have it. I’m done with this crap. The hell with it. I'm done with this place.

He paces the house; no one else is stirring. It’s quiet. The older he gets, the more his body feels old; the aches and pains. If I feel like this in my forties, what am I going to feel like in my sixties? Lately, his joints make these creaking sounds when he gets out of bed or stands from a chair after sitting for a long period of time. It’s all from the abuse he took when he played football. He feels it the most if he doesn’t get a good night’s sleep. His neck is stiff. Today, he feels like he’s the one that got hit with the brick. I’m sure glad I never went pro. He labors into the kitchen, brewing coffee; there’s no way he’s stopping to get a cup, as that would make him too easy of a target.

Driving through town, he attracts stares. I’ll bet they wish they could shoot me. Here I am. Take your shot. In the Old West, that’s how this would play out.

He makes his way to the high school gym. That’s odd. Why’s the parking lot so full? I must be late. I was sure there would be a lot of no-shows. I guess they’re trying to impress Pete for next season, but I thought for sure the seniors would be no-shows. But there’s Conway’s car.

Tom glances at his watch — he’s late. Scrambling, he heads to the gym. The gym is buzzing with excitement — it’s electric. He can’t identify it, but the mood seems — perky.

Pete, one of his assistant coaches, greets him like a junkyard dog. Tom tenses. What’s up with this guy? I’ll bet he wants to crack me one. Take your shot, dude. I’m ready.

Where the hell have you been? Pete fires off — smiling.

What the heck is this guy smiling about? He’s probably happy he is now going to be the head coach next season. Still, what the heck is up with this guy?

I know, I’m late, Tom replies. Sorry.

I’ve been trying to call you since last night, Pete replies.

Last night?

Yeah.

I turned my phone off and went to bed early.

Pete raises his voice, making a goofy face. "Well, that was a pretty stupid thing to do." The gym erupts in laughter.

Stupid? What? What is up with this asshole?

C’mon, don’t start, Tom says. Let’s just get this over with. Is everyone here?

Raising his voice, Pete says, "Yes, the miracle team is all here."

The gym erupts with a roar, Big Springs! The windows rattle.

Tom jumps. What the . . .?

A player yells, What do you think coach? Do you think this means we’re a team of destiny?

What? Okay, what’s going on? Tom asks.

You don’t know? Really? Pete asks, turning, raising his voice.

He doesn’t know.

Big Springs! the players roar.

Know what? Tom asks.

That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Pete replies. We’re in.

In? In what? The playoffs? Tom asks.

"The miracle team is here, Pete says. Isn’t that what you told the reporter last night? I think you said, ‘it would take a miracle to get us into the playoffs.’ Or something like that."

Wait a second— Mountain View? Tom asks.

Lost, Pete replies.

Greenwood?

Lost.

Snyder?

Lost.

Midland Christian also lost? Tom asks.

Yep. You got it. They lost. They all lost.

Big Springs! The windows shake.

Didn’t you watch the news last night? Pete asks.

No, I told you I ended up going to bed early.

Dammit, man, we’re still alive, Pete roars.

The players scream, Big Springs!

You gotta be shitting me. I’ll be damned— a reprieve, a second chance— unbelievable. The excitement is contagious and Tom dances inside. Flashing on his wife and kids, the euphoria is brief. Oh no. The monster has a new life. What if we lose?

This way of thinking is foreign to Tom — it’s wimpy — weak. He’s always positive, forceful. Is he changing? Am I losing my confidence? Am I becoming a wimp? This thought scares him. He’s still smiling, but inside he struggles with the idea of another game, maybe more. Can he make the emotional switch? Oh shit. What do I do now?

Tom always knows what to do, but at this moment, he’s at a loss. In his fifteen-plus years of coaching, he’s never experienced something like this. No, this is one for the books. He scrutinizes the faces of his young warriors. They have done a complete one-eighty from the previous night. His players are hanging on his every move — his every word.

Eyeing Pete, Tom asks, So we're in?

Hell yeah.

Big Springs!

Who do we play? Tom asks.

Oh man, I forgot to ask. I was just so excited. You know?

From the corner of the gym, an assistant coach yells, Coach, there’s a call for you. You can take it in the office.

Now what? Tom mutters. I’ll be back, people. The phone call saves him. Now he can regroup before going back in front of the players.

TOM PUTS THE HANDSET TO HIS EAR.

Hello.

Coach Thompson? the voice asks.

This is him.

Great, coach, this is Mark Fine from the state athletic competition committee. How are ya doin’ today?

Hi, Mark. I’m good.

Listen, coach. We’ve had a strange development since I last talked to one of your assistant coaches earlier this morning—

About the playoffs?

Ah, yeah . . . well, that's the thing, we’ve been doing some calculations. And, hell, we’ve never had this happen before. You know? I mean, ahh, I don’t think we could have planned for this in a million years. Okay, here’s the thing, coach—

We’re in, right?

Ahh, kinda, maybe.

‘Kinda’? What? Tom’s heart sinks. He can’t go back in there and tell everyone they’re kinda in the playoffs.

It seems we’ve run out of tiebreakers on this thing, and ahh, let’s be clear here—

Please, Tom replies.

Right. First off, we’re going to need an extra game.

Okay, so? That’s a playoff game, right?

Well, kinda.

"What’s with this kinda stuff?"

I’m sorry, but this thing just caught all of us by surprise. Okay, let me just get it out. There are three teams that appear to be eligible to play in that game.

Oh crap, Tom replies.

Exactly. And here’s the thing, we’ve been crunching the numbers all morning, but I’m afraid we have no options left. We’re going to have to do a coin-toss.

A coin-toss?

That’s right, Mark replies.

Jesus.

Believe me, coach, if there were any other way to do this thing.

Okay, okay. So, the bottom line is that everything is now riding on a coin-toss?

Well, yes, Mark replies. We don’t have the details worked out just yet, but we felt like we needed to inform all the teams before things got too far out of hand. But we’re going to flip a coin to see which two teams will play in the extra game. That much we've figured out.

And?

It’s just . . ., Mark stammers. You know, people around here get a little crazy over their football.

You don’t have to educate me on that. So, what’s the issue?

It’s where to hold it. This thing can real easily turn into a circus, Mark says. They had to do this in the eastern part of the state awhile back, and things got real ugly.

Damn.

Exactly. Just so we’re clear, we're going to flip a coin, and two teams move on, and one team goes home.

How does that work — exactly?

All three will flip, and the odd coin is out.

Christ.

I know how you’re feeling, coach. If there was any other—

Who are the other teams? Tom asks.

There’s you, Greenwood, and Midland Christian.

I see.

Cheer up, coach. You could have ended up like Snyder. At least you still gotta shot.

True. So, when will you know more?

I’ll give you a call Monday. Most likely in the morning. Okay, coach?

Okay.

Oh, and coach, if you can, try and keep any questions that might come up until after Monday when I call. Okay, coach? We are going to keep this thing as secret as we can. We don’t need this thing getting out of hand.

Like what happened in the eastern part of the state.

Exactly.

Alright. Thanks for the call.

You betcha. Good luck, coach.

Thanks. Tom stares at the wall. What a day. He glances at his watch. Look at that. It’s not even 9:30 yet. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. Thinking he’s alone, Tom cries out, Help me, Mr. Wizard, I don’t want to play football coach anymore.

Bad news, coach? his assistant asks.

Maybe. Sometimes your life hangs on the turn of a coin, Tom replies, heading back to the gym.

It does? What ya talkin’ about? What does that mean? The assistant chases Tom. What does that mean?

TOM ENTERS THE GYM, trying to figure out what he's going to say. Working his way to the front, he gazes at his players — their faces beam with hope.

Okay, people, listen up. Silence — all eyes are on Tom. I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?

The players’ expression of joy turns to puzzlement.

What do you say? Let’s hear the bad news first, Pete says.

No, the good news first..

No, man, let's hear the bad news first, then we’ll know how bad it is.

Are we still in the playoff?

Maybe, Tom replies.

"’Maybe’? What? ‘Maybe’? What does that mean?

Okay, okay, Tom yells. Let me tell you we’re one of three teams still in the hunt for a playoff spot. The league officials have said an extra game is needed to see who will win the final playoff spot.

The gym erupts, Yeah.

Tom yells, But, we're going to have to do a coin-toss to see which two teams will play. Any questions? Silence.

Alright, this is going to be easy.

The gym erupts with a cacophony of questions. Tom answers the same basic questions again, and again, and again for forty-five minutes, which all boils down to he'd know more on Monday. Exhaustion sets in — the players are numb. Tom dismisses the players. It’s a somber mood as the players file out of the gym. Hope has a heartbeat, but it’s faint. After the last player leaves, Tom gathers his assistants for a pow-wow.

Four

The Trial

Across town, at the coffee shop, a group of women gossip about the Thompson incident; that’s what they’re calling the attack on the Thompsons’ house. As the conversation continues, more women join — the numbers swell to fifteen.

Can you imagine? Marge remarks.

The table stirs — side conversations spark. The group gets loud. All agree they wouldn’t want to be in the Thompsons’ shoes.

Kathy must be going nuts, Mary remarks.

Do you think they’ll leave? Sue asks.

Who knows? Marge replies. They already have gone through a lot of shit, and they're still here.

It’s not going to get any easier, Pat says. The boys want him gone. And you know, when the board wouldn’t make Pete the head coach last year, well, Coach Thompson never had a chance, now did he?

Even so, it’s just been awful how those poor folks have been treated, Sue replies. You’d think they’d get a break.

Around here? Mary replies. Yeah, right. Football is just too damn important around here. You know that, Sue.

That may be, Pat replies. But one of those kids could have been killed. My daughter was in that living room with those kids when that asshole threw a brick through the winda.

What? They threw a brick through the window? Kate asks.

Sure did, Pat replies. "And they planted a for sale sign on the lawn."

This is getting out of hand. Maybe we should do something? Kate asks.

Honey, I’ve been here before, Sue replies. There’s nothing that stands in the way of that football team around here. You even look like you’re siding with the Thompsons, and y’all are asking for trouble.

Kate, honey,