Dusty squinted in the rusty sunlight.

"Thirteen years," he muttered to himself. He closed the blinds, shutting out the sunlight that he loathed so deeply, and returned to his chair in the center of his apartment. "Thirteen years, and still nothing." The sound machine turned itself on: Dusty had set it to come on every evening at 1800, just in case he was still in bed. But today he had gotten up early. A phone call had jolted him out of bed at the ripe hour of 1300, but it turned out to be a false lead.

Today would be different, though. Then again, Dusty told himself that every single evening before leaving for "work." It never was any different, though. He always had to go in the same loops, following the same tracks, and ending back in the same spot. The spot where his wife was killed.

Friends thought he was still grieving. No, he had gotten over that years ago. He didn't even miss his wife anymore. People got over those things quickly; well, he had. Rather, it was the fact that he still didn't know what had happened. For some inexplicable reason, he was still driven to find out.