The break of the day. Cemetery. A lonely man sitting under a tree, with a beer can in his hand, slowly sipping a Budweiser brew. His sight trailing over the tombstones, deliberately omitting to look at the one to the right of him. A modest but decent tombstone on which there weren't engraved the usual words: "A loving husband, an attentive father etc." No mention of anyone like that in his life. Only: "James Wilson. Mediocre doctor. The bestest friend." This childish engraving was the doing of the man under a tree. He never glanced at the words. Into the coming darkness, he uttered with a hidden tone of sorrow in his voice: "Happy birthday, Wilson."