* * * *
Time passed or at least Dale assumed it had because his next conscious thought was of how stiff and sore he was. He was still sitting on the floor of the downstairs hallway, body leaned against the wall. The floor was stained with a large dried rust brown crust of blood. Dale looked at his hands. They were stained just as badly, along with his chest and the front of his boxers. He incoherently wondered how long he’d been there. A breeze blew through the broken window of the office. It was daylight outside. Morning? He wasn’t sure.