Darryl took off half a day of work because of urgent personal business. He could think of nothing more important, and he filled his mind with anxiety.

Just this morning before walking out the door his wife told him, “Don’t be surprised if you come home to an empty house tonight. I may be gone, and if I am, I’ll never come back.”

These were the final words in a three-day rolling argument. For years, Becca had pointed out his thoughtlessness concerning her, overlooking birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays. These made her feel unloved, she asserted. She had continuously complained about his bullying her, his arrogance, his combativeness, and his unwillingness to be humble enough to admit when he was wrong.

Countless times, she had begged him in tears to stop demeaning her in public. “After all, I am your wife, and if that’s what you really think of me, it’s nothing more than a reflection on you—how you weren’t smart enough to make a good choice of a wife.”

When he left for work, Darryl did not care if she left, he might possibly welcome it. It would only go to prove her stupidity, he thought. What woman in her right mind would leave a man like him? He was a good provider, he possessed outstanding physical features, and over the years many women had made overtures to him, all of which he had declined.

Sometime around ten o’clock, while sitting in his cubicle and talking to a client on the telephone, it was if the blindfold lifted from his eyes. His wife’s words over the years came back to him, and for some reason he now understood they were true. In horror, he relieved moments where he had publicly shamed her, and times when he had gone out of his way to make her appear stupid. He recalled the missed special days, how he had made her cry and feel rejected, and how he had completely failed in being a good and loving husband to the woman he had married.

Leaving work at noon, he went to the floral shop, then to the department store and picked up perfume and clothing. He stopped at a gift store and purchased items she had said she wanted over the years but which he had refused to buy her. He booked a vacation—in actuality a honeymoon, which he had never given her—in the Caribbean. Darryl could not think of enough places to stop and things to purchase because he hoped he could make up for 17 years of cruelty in an afternoon of unfettered spending.

Becca arrived home at 5:30 every evening, so Darryl timed his arrival to be a few minutes later. Although he did not see her car, he assumed she had parked it in the garage and closed the door, so he bounded in the front door, calling her name. That itself should have signaled a change to Becca, for he never called her by name.

Silence greeted Darryl. He walked through the house in search of her, but his calls echoed emptily. He found her note on the kitchen table.

Becca had gone through with it. She had left him, and she promised the finality of it. Nothing he could do would win her back. She triple underlined the word nothing.

Earlier in the day, he did not care if she left, but now he did. For the first time in his married life, he ached, he cried, he felt rejected, he felt despair. He had inflicted all this on his wife for 17 years and had experienced it just this once, and wondered how she had endured all that time.

Why the epiphany of his wrong behavior if there was no hope of reconciliation, he wondered. This was not a mystery for long, though. After a few moments of mediation, he understood completely. Without that revelation he could never have suffered as he was now, he never could have understood the torment his wife had endured, and he would have put the blame on her instead of upon himself.

Fred wore the title of town drunk with distinction, although in practice he was neither the town drunk, nor did he make drinking a state of existence. True, he could tie one on with the best, but he usually limited his imbibing to Saturday nights in particular, and any other night when he felt thirsty.

Fred’s inability to read, write, or perform basic mathematical functions aggravated his reputation in town, and citizens played him for the fool to his face but ridiculed him behind his back. On daily visits to the barbershop to spread and receive gossip, Fred became the butt of cruel jokes instigated by patrons.

“Say, Fred, how old are you?” a man waiting for the next open chair might ask.

“Well, let’s see,” Fred would reply. “I was born in 1929, and it’s now 1984, so I’m 47 years old.” In truth, the current year might be 1987.

The men in the shop would give a predictable answer by staring at him in amazement and telling him he did not appear that old, and they would never laugh at him while present. After he left the shop, though, they cackled and hooted and said they could not wait for the next day, for then he might say he was 73 years old.

Despite his reputation, Fred possessed a gentle spirit, loving animals and children, and both groups reciprocated his affections. Children, who generally have a sense about good and evil about them at a young age, felt safe around him, while their parents harbored the same feelings and never shooed Fred away.

Fred had a long-time companion wherever he went, one of the ugliest dogs ever to walk the face of the earth, a severely mixed breed named Harold. Fred said he had named the dog after his own father because the dog resembled him. His father’s name had really been Jackson, but no one bothered to tell Fred that. Jackson had been a businessman and important person in the town, had served on town committees and had helped establish the bank. He also had spearheaded the drive to improve the local schools. Fred barely recalled his father, though, who had died 40 years previously.

One morning Fred awoke and reached over his arm to pet Harold, but for the first time in remembrance, Harold was not there.

“Harold! Harold, where are you?” he yelled. He kept calling as he walked through the rooms, but no reply came.

When he got to his front room, a room most families would call their living room or family room, Fred looked with dismay at an unexpected sight. Someone had come into his house overnight and had stolen some things, knocked over a few pieces of furniture, and broken lamps and bowls. Technically, it could not be labeled a break-in, for Fred never locked his doors, not possessing the knowledge of how to lock and unlock them.

He cussed for five straight minutes as he walked about the house, examining the damage. Then he washed his face and walked to the police station, walking because he could neither ride a bicycle nor drive a car, even if he owned one.

“What’s the matter, Fred?” asked the chief, Willard Barker, with a smile. “You look all out of sorts this morning.”

“Someone’s robbed me,” said Fred. “While I was asleep. Came in my house, broke things, stole things from the living room, turned over some chairs and such.”

Barker became serious. “Robbed you? Robbed you? That’s hard to believe.”

“It’s true! Come on down to my place and check it out. I ain’t touched nothing. Left it just like it was. It’s a shame a body can’t live in his own home in this town without the fear of getting robbed when he was asleep.”

The chief and Fred got in the squad car and headed towards the house.

“Can you turn on the siren?” asked Fred. “I want everyone to know this is official police business.”

The chief complied, even letting Fred turn the switch.

At the house, the chief surveyed the damage and shook his head while taking notes.

“Did they get anything valuable?” he asked.

“Durn tootin’ they got something valuable,” snapped Fred. “They took Harold!”

“Harold?” quizzed the chief. “Your dog? Why would they want your dog?”

“He’s my bestest friend in the whole world. He’s the most valuable thing I got.”

“I’m not understanding this,” said Chief Barker. “How did this happen when you were home?  They had to have made some noise. And they took Harold. Wouldn’t he have barked or something and woken you up?”

Fred cussed around a little bit and hung his head before saying, “Well, Willard, I weren’t really feeling well last night when I fell to sleep. I-I-I guess I was pretty well dead to the world.”

“Oh,” replied the chief, “you mean you might have drunk a little too much last night?”

Fred still would not look the chief in the eye.

“I suppose so,” he replied. “I mean, I got started and…well, I didn’t stop. Now you know I don’t do that often! Just every once in awhile, particularly when I’m feeling a little lonely, and last night I felt pretty low. Not as low as I’m feeling now. Why’d they have to take Harold? They could’ve had anything in the house they wanted. I ain’t got no use for chairs and tables and dishes and lamps and glasses, but my dog! They took my dog!”

Chief Barker resumed writing, making descriptions of things as he saw them. Then he turned to a blank page in his book and asked, “Could you tell me exactly what they took? Do you know?”

Fred fumbled around for words and walked about the room. Chief Barker felt sorry, knowing that Fred actually did not know what the thieves had taken because he did not know what he had in his house.

“Aside from the dog,” Fred said at last, “the only thing I really know is missing is a box of coins and medals from on top of the fireplace, along with a sword that hung over it. My dad left all that for me. He said they were given to him by his grandfather, or maybe even his great-grandfather, I don’t remember. Dad said they had some value. I guess they did. Never meant anything to me, though.”

He walked sullenly around town the rest of the day. Everyone had heard about his loss, so people treated him with kindness. At the barbershop, the owner, Lawrence Tyler, asked if the police had any leads.

“Nothing,” replied Fred. “All I want back is Harold. They can have the rest. What am I going to do without Harold? He’s my onliest friend in the world. He helps me get home when I’ve been out drinking. If I go the wrong way, he barks until I’m back on the right path. Smartest dog in the whole world, he was.”

Fred openly cried, the only time anyone in town could remember him doing so when he was sober.

Night fell about eight o’clock, and Fred meandered back to his house, crestfallen. He did not bother to turn on the lights, but went directly to his bed and flopped on it, but sleep would not come.

A few minutes after ten o’clock there was an urgent pounding on the front door, followed by a loud voice he recognized as Chief Barker’s.

“Fred! Open up! It’s important! Open up!” yelled the chief, who came to the house personally because Fred did not have a telephone.

Fred cussed at the chief as he walked through the house and mumbled, “Can’t leave a man alone when he’s at his lowest point. Have to disturb a man in the middle of the night,” he mumbled. “What do you want?” he barked at the chief when he opened the door.

“Fred! Come with me! Down to the station! There’s something—you won’t believe it—there’s something you’ve got to see!”

“I ain’t in no mood to come to the station,” said Fred. “I want to stay here!”

“It’s about your robbery. Come on!” and he grabbed Fred’s hand and drug him out the door. Fred had to return to the house to retrieve his shoes, however.

At the station, the chief took Fred to his office. “Look!” he said, pointing at a sword lying on his desk.

“What? Where’d that come from? That looks like my sword!”

“It is your sword,” replied the chief.

“Did…did you capture the thieves?” asked Fred.

“No, not yet anyway. Sit down. You’re not going to believe what I’m going to tell you.”

Fred handled the sword and sat down.

“I’m glad to get it back, but it’s not really what I want,” he said. “I want Harold.”

“Harold was here!” said the chief.

“What?” said Harold, who perked up. “Where is he now?”

“He was right here. Right here in the police station. He came walking into town with this sword in his mouth, and I was sitting outside on a bench, When I saw it was him, I called him over. He walked right up to me and dropped the sword at my feet. I picked them both up and took them inside.

“I started to look at the sword to see if there might be prints or anything else on it that could help us find the thieves, Harold took off out the door when an officer opened it. I took off after him, but he ran away too fast and it was dark and I couldn’t find him. This was about 25 minutes ago. I’ve got a couple of officers out looking for him. Hopefully they can find him.”

Fred started crying again, saying he wished he could have Harold again. He said he would give anything—even give up drinking—if he could only have his dog back.

An officer radioed the station and told the chief they had not found Harold and did not even know where to begin looking. The chief told them to ride around for another half an hour and maybe they could spot him.

Fred sat dejectedly in the office while Chief Barker examined the sword some more. Suddenly the chief yelled, “Fred, do you know what you have here?”

Fred looked up and replied, “A sword, but no Harold. What’s it matter?”

“No, no. This sword! Do you know what it is?”

“It’s a sword. An old sword.”

“Yes, it’s a sword. Listen, Fred, I collect swords myself. I go to shows and see collectors. Do you have any idea how much money this sword is worth?”

“I’ll sell it to you for twenty bucks,” said Fred. “That’d give me a couple drunks, probably.”

“Fred, I can’t give you twenty dollars for this sword. It’s worth thousands of times that much. It’s a—“

Barking at the police station door interrupted the chief. Fred and Chief Barker raced outside, and there stood Harold. At his feet was the box from the fireplace. His tail wagged briskly, and when he saw his master and friend, he jumped into Fred’s outstretched arms.

“This is all I need,” said Fred joyously. “Keep the sword, keep the box with the coins and stuff. Just let me go home with Harold. I’m the happiest man alive.”

However, when Fred placed Harold on the ground, the dog took off running again, stopped about a hundred feet away, and barked repeatedly.

“He wants us to go,” said Chief Barker. “He wants us to go with him.”

Chief Barker and Fred got in the police car and followed Harold slowly. The dog took them to a house in the country, where the chief found two drunken young men. A little examination of the room determined that these were the thieves.

The entire town rejoiced in Fred’s good fortune and marveled at Harold.

“Smartest dog I’ve ever known,” echoed the entire contingent in the barbershop.

People greeted Fred and Harold on the street with exuberance. Children wanted to pet the dog, something the dog did not object to.

Chief Barker came to Fred’s house two days later.

“I’m not going to go into detail about all thsi, because I don’t think you’d really care,” he began. “Just let me say that’s an extremely rare sword. There are people who would pay you probably two hundred thousand dollars to buy it, maybe more. But that’s not all. Do you know what was in that box? Have you ever looked in it?”

“No, not in years” said Fred. “My dad said it was some coins and some papers. I can’t read so I didn’t care about the papers. The coins were pretty, though.”

“Some of those coins,” said Chief Barker, “are priceless. They’re not safe to keep in your house, same as the sword. Some are over 200 years old and date back to before the American Revolution. If coin collectors knew you had these, they’d be begging you to sell them, and they’d pay you more money than you can imagine.

“That’s not all,” he continued. “Those papers are important. Some of them are bank stock. As of this moment you are one of the most important stock holders in the bank, and you are an extremely wealthy man. Between the sword, the coins, and the stock, Fred, you are undoubtedly the richest man in town.”

“Is that so?” replied Fred, apparently not caring. “Chief, I don’t know nothing at all about money. I can’t add or subtract. Can’t even sign my own name, so I don’t know where having a lot of money does me any good. But one thing I do know—I am the richest man in town because I’ve got Harold. He’s all I care about, and he’s all I need.”

Chief Barker took care of Fred’s financial interests by putting the sword and the contents of the box in a safe until he could find a permanent home for them. He also managed his affairs concerning the bank stock and helped to insure a secure, stable life for Fred as long as he lived.

“What about that dog?” asked the barber of Chief Barker one morning shortly thereafter. “Did you ever figure out why he brought that particular stuff back?”

“It’s beyond explanation,” replied the chief. “I’ve thought about it for a long time, and you’re going to think I’m crazy, but I’ve come to think maybe the dog is the smartest one in that house. Who knows? Maybe the dog has been sent to look out for Fred. Are there such things as angels in the form of animals?”

Every day Jordan Carton covered the one-and-one-half miles to work on foot—literally one foot.

From the age of 19 until he was 36 Jordan worked in a heavy-equipment manufacturing business that paid well and provided wonderful security. However, an industrial accident caused by a fellow worker not paying attention to a warning light on an electronic console resulted in Jordan losing his leg from the hip down.

He was completely alone in the world, an only child whose parents had died within a year of each other nearly a dozen years prior to the accident. Jordan had never married and had no known relatives, although some must have existed somewhere. The accident cost him his job, and even though there was a financial settlement, it was not nearly enough to provide for him for the remainder of his life.

No public transportation existed in his town, and Jordan was too embarrassed, too angry, or too proud to ask the only other hourly employee for a ride each day. So he walked each morning to work and returned home each afternoon in the same manner.

Most people would fall into self-pity, and he did too. He seldom talked to anyone, confined himself to his apartment, and watched television or worked on wood crafts in his off hours. His diet consisted of frozen foods. The other employee with whom he worked later said that the only time Jordan talked was in brief exchanges when he needed to know some information about the job he was working on at the time. He never went out with anyone to a bar or to a movie because he associated with no one.

Jordan had been fitted for a prosthetic leg, but it rubbed him and made him quite uncomfortable, so after a month of wearing it, he pitched it in the dumpster. Instead, he hobbled on one crutch everywhere his one leg would take him.

One night a fire broke out in his apartment building, which consisted of four units. He had a ground floor apartment. To his left lived an elderly couple who were each nearly completely deaf; one walked with a cane, while the other one moved about in a wheelchair. Jordan broke into their dwelling and herded them outdoors to safety.

In the unit above lived a woman with her elderly mother and their three cats. Upon hearing the fire alarm each became hysterical and neither had the presence of mind to open the door and move to safety. Thanks to Jordan they survived when he once again broke into their place and shepherded them outdoors.

In the other upstairs apartment dwelt a family of five—two parents and three children under the age of five. Their apartment was the one where the fire originated, and they appeared trapped inside. Jordan again managed to break open the door. The husband grabbed his youngsters and whisked them to the yard, but the wife lay unconscious on the floor.

When the firefighters arrived they found the wife in the hall and took her outside and worked on her. She survived, although smoke inhalation forced her to the hospital for two days.

However, flames engulfed the complex by this time and Jordan was nowhere to be found. Later his body was discovered still in his family’s apartment. His crutch had melted, and the medical examiner speculated that, unable to move, he had attempted to escape the smoke and fire by going to a window, breaking it out, and breathe fresh air while waiting for someone to rescue him.

Jordan Carton lay on his stomach covering a book he had found on a shelf. Officials could offer no explanation for the book other than speculation that he had been delirious before the end. The title was A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens, and it was turned to the final page.

Hattie was a woman who, once engaged in an activity, allowed her passions to rule over her in its pursuit, heedless of advice or warnings from others, including close friends and relatives. With a single-mindedness that could not be deterred even in the face of impending destruction, she pressed on, convinced that the activity would bring her ultimate satisfaction. Such determination is admirable for level-headed people who desire to obtain a goal, as long as it is not unreasonable and it bears favorable promise of gain or advancement, but in the end it led to poor Hattie’s ruin.

For many years her husband Frank held her in check. His iron hand and equally inflexible will governed Hattie’s passions mercilessly. Frank had one area in particular in which he insisted on compliance from his wife, and that was in the area of gambling. He ranted about having witnessed friends and acquaintances from work lose family and homes over gambling losses, and he swore it would never happen to him.

Unfortunately Frank passed away early, leaving Hattie to heed the Sirens Call of betting, and it did not take long for her to plunge in head over heels. She loved two places in particular—the racetrack and the casino, and she generously fed their never-sated appetite to consume others’ money.

Hattie possessed another trait which accounted for much of her troubles. She was extremely superstitious and relied heavily upon the horoscope to direct her to her destiny, religiously reading each day’s words of guidance from her horoscope book. In addition she also believed in lucky numbers and visited fortunetellers.

For months after Frank’s death Hattie made her presence felt either at the local casino or at the horse track, becoming acquainted on a first-name basis with those who worked there. Her losses mounted, and she quickly began losing money she could neither afford nor pay back. As her situation grew desperate, she determined to visit her favorite psychic to get the best number for a particular upcoming meet at the track, along with any other advice she could get.

“I need your help really bad,” said Hattie to Madame Ardanna. “I haven’t been lucky lately and I need you to give me the best advice you’ve ever given because I need money soon.”

“Oh, my poor Hattie,” said the seer, “have you not been taking my advice? Or perhaps you have been visiting someone else, someone not quite as gifted as I am?”

“Well, to be honest, my horoscope’s been all out of whack, and I have seen two, no three, other psychics. They have not been able to see nearly as well as you.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” said Madame Ardanna. “But you know where to come when you really need good advice, do you not?”

During the visit the psychic presented her with the number seven to use as a guide in her upcoming endeavor.

“I see this is something big for you,” she said. “Something very, very big and important. Do not allow yourself to be sidetracked by any other advice. Seven is your prime number for this crucial time.”

Hattie thanked her profusely, paid her fee along with a generous tip, and was about ready to leave when Madame Ardanna grabbed her arm. “One more thing,” she said. “One important piece of advice, just a phrase really, and I’m trusting you will know what it means when the time comes. Beware of Jack. That’s all—Beware of Jack.”

Hattie now knew her troubles were about at an end. She was going to the track in two more days, and she had decided beforehand that she was only going to bet the number of the horse Madame Ardanna had advised, unlike all the other times when she bet every horse in each race and hoped a long shot would win. However, she told herself that she was going to be smart this time and only bet horse number seven in a race where that particular horse had odds of at least five to one. She knew that meant there would be some races where she would not bet at all, but she persuaded herself that she could be disciplined enough to abstain from betting in those races.

She still pondered the phrase “Beware of Jack,” not as yet understanding its significance. She had known a few men named Jack in her lifetime, but none were of any consequence, and she currently had no contact with any man of that name. What could it mean? Could Jack be the name of a man who would try to get her sidetracked at the races? She simply did not know but was confident she would recognize and avoid him when the proper time came.

The early races proved profitable for Hattie. Two of the first three contained a number seven horse with odds she would use, and they paid nicely for her. Still, she had great debt—over $40,000—and it was coming due soon. She also bet and won in the fifth and sixth races, and her earnings were now in the low thousands.

“If there’s a seven with big odds later, I can cash in and pay everything I owe,” she thought. However, in races seven through nine, no horse number seven had agreeable odds, and she grew sullen.

The tenth and last race approached and she studied the racing program. Suddenly she became overwhelmed with joy and started clapping her hands.

“Tenth race, horse number seven, odds are twenty-five to one! I’m saved! I’m saved!”

Her exuberance left her just as suddenly though as she read the names of the horse and jockey.

“Jack O’Lantern, ridden by Jack Kinney. Beware of Jack! Beware of Jack!”

Convinced that this horse and jockey were plotting to overthrow her good fortune, Hattie determined not to bet horse number seven, but to go with a different one of better but still long odds, a horse wearing number three but named Lucky Seven. She bet all of her winnings.

The race was a long one of a mile, and Lucky Seven got out of the gate well and was near the head of the pack at the halfway point. Trailing the field was Jack O’Lantern. Hattie clapped nervously but said little.

During the next quarter mile Lucky Seven overtook the leader and built a three-length lead, while Jack O’Lantern was still at the back.

“I knew it! I knew it!” she exclaimed excitedly. “Today’s my lucky day. All my problems will be over. I can pay my gambling debts and start over.”

At this point something happened which made her uneasy, as Jack O’Lantern started weaving up through the pack.

“There’s not enough time for that horse,” she said and clapped for Lucky Seven, who was still securely in the lead.

As they rambled down the stretch Jack O’Lantern ran like the wind, passing horses as if they were standing still. With an eighth of a mile to go Lucky Seven led Jack O’Lantern, who had moved up to second, by four lengths. Then it became clear that Lucky Seven had run out of gas. The gap narrowed, but it still appeared as if Hattie’s horse was going to present her with a huge payday.

A photo finish determined that Jack O’Lantern edged out Lucky Seven by the narrowest of margins and she saw her winnings vaporize before her eyes.

Hattie never gave up her belief in the stars determining her fate, nor did she stop visiting her psychic. She faced some especially difficult financial times but also never stopped paying her required Gamblers Union Number One dues to the casino and the track.