VERNE HASKEL crept miserably up the front steps of his house, his overcoat dragging behind him. He was tired. Tired and discouraged. And his feet ached.
"My God," Madge exclaimed, as he closed the door and peeled off his coat and hat. "You home already?"
Haskel dumped his briefcase and began untying his shoes. His body sagged. His face was drawn and gray.
"No, dinner isn't ready. What's wrong this time? Another fight with Larson?"
Haskel stumped into the kitchen and filled a glass with warm water and soda. "Let's move," he said.
"Away from Woodland. To San Francisco. Anywhere." Haskel drank his soda, his middle-aged flabby body supported by the gleaming sink. "I feel lousy. Maybe I ought to see Doc Barnes again. I wish this was Friday and tomorrow was Saturday."
"What do you want for dinner?"
"Nothing. I don't know."