At the top of the stairs. Down the hall. Through the last door. Dark wood against deep blues. Mr. Suiter sits in his office, a letter in front of him. His eyes glace over the words, but do not read. He rereads it.

To Kile Suiter,

I am so sorry to hear of your loss...

It continues; he does not continue. He removed the revolver from the desk drawer. Put one bullet inside. Click. Spin. He rests the end on his temple.

Knock Knock

...a moment...

Mr. Suiter: “Yes.”

Butler [through the door]: “Sir, a package has come.”

Mr. Suiter: “From.”

Butler: “Amazonica.”

Mr. Suiter: “What’s inside.”

Butler: “I do not know.”

Mr. Suiter places the revolver on the desk.

Mr. Suiter: “Why don’t you open it.”

Butler: “It is not appropriate.”

Mr. Suiter: “I’m telling you it is appropriate. Open the package.”

Butler: “Should I continue this in the future.”

Mr. Suiter: “Open the damn thing!” The rustling of the package.

Butler: “It is your new fuzzy pajamas.”

Mr. Suiter: “Place them at the door. I’ll take care of them later.”

Butler: “Not in your wardrobe?” Mr. Suiter thinks.

Mr. Suiter: “Yes.”

Butler: “Yes, I should put them at your door or yes, in your wardrobe.”

Mr. Suiter: “Yes, in my wardrobe.”

Butler: “Very well, Sir.” Mr. Suiter hears the clicking of the butlers receding footsteps.

Mr. Suiter Picks up the revolver again and places it against his temple. One second. Two Second. THREE SECOND.

Mr. Suiter [to himself]: “Damn it, now I’m out of it.”