[ WP ] In the distant future , energy has become too expensive for all but the rich to access , so the poor have reverted to using horse drawn carts for transportation .

“ Tea? ” 
 
 “ Yeah. ” I say. “ Sure. ” 
 
 My eyes make their way back down to my blue notebook, reading and re-reading my thin, scratched handwriting in the hopes that the words might form a picture. They don ’ t, of course, and I set it down with a sigh, wishing, not for the first time, for a cup of coffee. 
 
 The cafe I ’ m sitting in has been preserved in its antiquity. Booths, linoleum floors, a short order cook; the 80 ’ s recalled through rose-rimmed glasses. A jukebox sits unused in the far corner, bare wires sticking out where the plug has been torn off. Three booths huddle along the wall and a couple tables are scattered across the floor. Four stools occupy the area closest to the counter and in one of them I ’ m sitting; notebook in hand, waiting for the wood stove to bring me heated water, and hoping for a breakthrough. 
 
 I ’ m picturing the man, painting myself a picture from what I know, and I ’ m realizing that I know next to nothing. The statements have formed a picture of a man in his late twenties, tall and broad, unhappy, and a farrier by trade. The faded photograph, a relic from times when cameras were commonplace, has revealed a slightly different version of reality, a homely looking man, self-assured, standing with a wife and kids. My notebook however holds another version of the truth, cemented in the cold hard facts of a handwritten case file: gunshot through the temple, dead on impact, suicide. 
 
 But not just suicide; suicide with a gun, and that fact doesn ’ t sit right in my mind. What I should be picturing is a corpse hung by the neck, two slashed wrists bleeding out on the floor, an opened pill bottle and an overdose. Not many would take a mortgage against their home to commit suicide, not when a belt and a shower faucet would do the trick for free. I ’ ve run the numbers already and they stare back at me in my own small script. One hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollars to purchase an illegal firearm, twelve thousand more for a bullet. 
 
 “ Officer? ” I ’ m pulled from my train of thought by the arrival of my tea, and I do my best to smile at the waitress as she tells me to “ leave it a sec, because you ’ re likely to burn your tongue if you don ’ t. ” 
 
 “ Okay. ” I ’ m nodding. “ Yeah. ” But I ’ m thinking about Darryl Kasey Pope. And the name is running through my head, picking up facts and sticking them to itself like name tags. *Darryl Kasey Pope, farrier. Darryl Kasey Pope, unhappy. Darryl Kasey Pope, suicide. * 
 
 I hear the small dangling bell near the door chime, but it ’ s the firm hand on my shoulder that gets my attention. Officer McConnell helps himself to the stool next to mine - waving away the waitress before she has a chance to ask him if he ’ d like some tea - and cuts straight to the chase. That ’ s something I ’ ve always liked about him, his no-nonsense approach to any situation. 
 
 “ Nothing. ” He spreads his hands wide, palms up, as if to show me all the nothing he ’ s found. “ Your man ’ s a ghost. Went to work, came home, fished on the weekends. Nothing in the physical archives either. A right goody-goody if you ask me. ” 
 
 “ Anything on the gun? ” 
 
 “ Even less. ” 
 
 I ’ d known all along that the physical archives were a long shot. Paper copies are few and far between, and it ’ s even rarer to find ones that have been updated since the price jump. I ’ d held out hope for the gun though. A purchase that expensive was bound to attract attention, and not just from the sparse police force. 
 
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 I did n't manage to fit your sentence in *yet*, but I may be back to add more at a later date. 
 
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