The energy in the room was palpable.

The election results were about to be announced.

An old man sat in the corner of the room, in a wheel chair. A veteran's hat sat tilted atop his head. He wore a blue tie and a suit jacket.

He surveyed the crowd of mostly young people. They were excited. They were alive, really alive. He had stood in that crowd once.

His hair was now grey, his body worn from years of life experience.

He clasped his hands in his lap and waited.

State by state, the numbers were reported in.

Red. Blue. Red. Blue.

At the end of the night, the result was blue.

He didn't jump or cheer. He left that to the younger activists.

He closed his eyes and began to cry. His country, the country he had fought for, would never be the same.

He felt change. Finally.

For most, Sundays are a day of rest. The Sabbeth, a holy day. Or at least they're supposed to be.

For one paticular football fan in Topeka, Sundays are generally a day of emotional distress.

Every Sunday he made his way to Seabrook's Bar and Grill. He sported the same, raggedy Chiefs cap he'd worn every Sunday for years. He took his usual stool at the bar, directly across from a large flat screen television.

He ordered a Budweiser and a basket of fries. He tapped his fingers on the sticky bar surface anticipating the kick off.

There was still hope before the kick off.

They raced up the stairs of the freshman dormitory, large mattress in hand.

The prank had been carefully planned.

Their suitemate was at the library studying. Afterall, it was only a week before finals.

The mattress slide perfectly beneath the bed of a friend on the third floor.

Their hearts raced. "He'll NEVER find it here!" they conversed amid a few excited high fives.

They returned to the first floor lobby and waited, patiently, for his return and the fruits of their labor.

The petite woman sat tall in the seat of her shiney black SUV.

She zipped through traffic with ease and without notice of thick, bright traffic lines.

A multi-tasker at heart, she held a steaming cup of Starbucks in one hand and a Blackberry in the other.

Perhaps she was driving with her knees. Fellow drivers had to wonder.

She wrapped her arms around the frail woman. It was all she could do not to cry. She never thought she would run into this situation as a studio owner. Teenagers aren't supposed to die from cancer.

The mother had come in to pay a bill for lessons. Lessons her daughter may never take. A woman who was never late with a payment, was in the front row of every performance, and seemed to be strong and confident from the outside, was now just a shell of what she had been. Chemo treatments and hospital stays had been harder on the family than the fourteen year old, it seemed.