Randy Smith and Rock had worked together at a talk radio station thirty years earlier and just happened to meet in the lobby of the Arkansas Democrat building as they prepared to leave. Rock carried a large canvas equipment bag with him, partially filled with paperwork from his desk and old mail that had gathered for years.
Shortly after Randy and Rock walked out of the front door, as they stood by the steps to the ancient castle next door to the Democrat Building waiting for traffic to break, Rock suddenly became aware there was something alive in the bag. He thought immediately of his cat Pam.
"Holy shit, Randy," he said. "There's something in this bag."
"What do you think it is?"
"I don't know. I think it might be Pam."
Rock felt compelled to check. Perhaps some animal from the paper had climbed in, though he knew how crucial it was to not let out Pam if it were her. He slowly unzipped the bag to check, but Pam was too quick for him, and she wriggled out through the opening. This was trouble. Pam ran to the corner of the nearest intersection and into a drain opening before he could react, and Rock knew he faced the potential of hours spent downtown in search of his cat.
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