Charley Winterbourne drinks muscatel up on the third floor. Like they say, he says, Goodnight, Chet, Goodnight, David, and Walter, Walter Cronkite when he says that’s the way it was, Walter, Charley says. Charley sits stocking footed on the edge of the bed. He pours more wine into his glass. The wine pours gold and brown and clear. Walter, Walter Cronkite. Charley lifts his glass. No one else is in the room. Out the window the lights of San Francisco are yellow. The sky is a soft dark blue. Goodnight, folks, goodnight, that’s the way it was. Charley still has his hat on. His grin is sleepy and he is sleepy too. Goodnight, Chet, Goodnight, David, and Walter, Walter Cronkite when he says, Goodnight, folks, goodnight.