Mercer sat in his office that same evening, drinking a cup of coffee, even though it was late. He hadn't slept the night before, come to think of it, he hadn't slept in days. The cup trembled in his hand, the very same news clipping Dennis had seen sat in front of him. It had come from a different paper, but there it was. Some coffee spilt on the plastic paper protector, and he jumped up, spilling the rest all over his shirt. "God DAMNIT!" he cried, pulling open a drawer open so hard it came out in his hand. He let it drop to the floor quickly, and flopped down in his chair. He ran his fingers through his thoroughly ruffled hair, and glanced at the postcard Dennis has written. It had been weeks since he had gotten it, but he never answered. The truth was, he didn't know, and even though he though Dennis's explanation was shit, he was terrified. He picked it up again and read it aloud, even though he had it memorized. Mumbling an array of curses he put on his jacket, and kicked the chair aside. He left his office that night in disarray, and he never ended up cleaning it. "I have to get home, I haven't slept in days!" he cried to nobody in particular. He staggered across the street to his car, whispering a long stream of curses. He never knew she was coming until her lights flashed in his eyes.