Something is not right. The shadows move all around him. The wind creeps slowly, eerily. Everything is in it’s right place, this much he knows. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Every book on the shelf aligned. Every cushion on the couch perfectly adjusted. The blankets folded neatly and stacked in the corner. He knows this room. He rarely leaves this room. He hasn’t all day. And yet, something seems suddenly out of place. He looks around. The pictures on the wall perfectly level. The lamp shades rotate with the ceiling fan, exactly like normal. The collection of teddy bears sits there like always, all 497 in a row, holding hands like good little children. He stares at the radio, anxiously awaiting the news from war. His computer continues to yell at him, “virus database has been updated”. The police are closing in, he can feel it now. The sirens in the distance grow steadily louder. His fried egg sandwich remains untouched, just the way he likes it. He looks at his wall of shovels and carefully removes his favorite, an old wheelbarrow. His dog, Plato, sits at his feet and whimpers. He decides that the time has come. He walks out the window and onto the lake, hands in the air. The pelican stares slowly as he removes his parka. “Freeze!” yells the congressman, flanked on either side by the Mormons. He carefully shifts into reverse and idles his way out of the driveway, pancake breakfast closing in. He drifts off into the nothingness where rams graze on mango trees, amidst his own kind, his beloved canaries.