Some stories are so horribly awful that they seem to stay put, resting only with those insiders in the legal profession that know the truth of a thing that really happened that was so abosolutely gruesome, hideous, gastly, macabre, horrendous, . . . that the story stays frozen in time and is not permitted to enter the broadband informational fray. Maybe it's best, because once I realized that this actually happened and that it happened on God's watch, I left faith my faith in a burnt-out singlewide and a black, burned out clothes dryer in Cocke County, Tennessee. Maybe the truth should spring from its cover so ignorant Appalachian would at least deny the existence of an interventionist Lord. But, meanwhile, some poor old woman in Mexico City takes solace in the blood that seems to emerge from the eyes of the clay Madonna during lent. What a crock of nonsense into which the masses dip their hearts and minds. Poverty does that to human beings. Riley was poor, too. So he was headed that way, as well. His heart and mind would now differ completely, having emerged from the ashes of an absolute horror.