One belongs to a dead man.

One belongs to a young couple trying at this very moment to conceive a son.

One belongs to a young man. He ran away from home at some point in his life. He could be only sixteen years old. I have seen him crying.

One belongs to McGruff the Crime Dog's nephew, Scruff. That little bastard is always taking a bite out of crime.

One belongs to the super. He always has huge equipment in the back of his pickup. His wife left him last year.

One belongs to a murderer. I wish I knew which one. It could be any of the ten. But I know there is a murderer among them.

One belongs to a businessman. Every day he looks the same. Same clothes, same hair, same expressionless face. He could be 30,000 years old and no one would notice.

One belongs to a gigantic Dorito with a human face. Sometimes he has to break off a corner or two to fit into his car. I think he works for Frito-Lay. He gets that orange shit everywhere.

One belongs to a single mother. She seems content. And her boyfriend seems nice enough.

One belongs to Roto-Rooter. They are working on the plumbing.

One is a little wagon like a little boy might pull around. I have never seen anyone touch it and I have never seen it move.