It was the fifth anniversary of the Big Event and therefore the very last day that anyone would remember or care that Kenny Rogan had once been a hero. If he could just get through his shift he could go back to his shitty apartment, unplug the phone, not answer the door, and soon it would all be behind him.

Somehow he’d gotten through the first half of his shift (well, the first three hours anyway) with nothing more than a minor domestic call, some teens caught trying to jack CD’s, and a B & E.

No one had recognized him and no one had cared.

He just needed four more hours like that (okay, five) and he was golden.

That fact, coupled with the taste of the drink in his coffee cup that was not, in fact, coffee, had almost smoothed his jangled nerves.

And then his cell warbled. He flicked open the phone and glanced at the number.

It was the precinct.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he muttered. What did they want? He’d called in two-thirteen.

He stabbed the power button with his thumb and slid the cell back into his pocket. He’d deal with whatever it was when he got back to the cruiser.

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