Surprise, kids, we’re going to the movies.

The movies are closed, Wynne.

The drive-in opens tonight, Bethany.

I don’t have anything to wear.

I thought we settled your identity crisis last week. Since your accident you’re wearing a crew cut your daughter says looks so chill she gave herself one. You dyed them blue and call yourself twin hipsters. Palmer got back on the golf course this morning although he seemed a little slow. Me? I’m buying cases of scotch online, successfully playing the market, working from home and adapting. America’s re-opening. What’s the issue?

So what’s playing at the movies, Wynne?

John Wick and the Exorcist.

Is that one movie?

For God’s sake, Bethany.

So it’s two movies, Bethany said.

John Wick is the story of a martial macho man who refuses to quit. Like me. The Exorcist is a religious film for the kids. So they don’t lose their faith.

Palmer breezed into the room slurring his words.

Hey, dudes, he said.

You will stop calling me dude, young man, Wynne said.

Wynne, he’s just a child.

A totally stoned child, Ashley said.

Palmer giggled.

I feel fuzzy, he said.

Cars, SUVs and pick-ups packed the drive-in by 8:30 p.m. Despite the safe distance order, people grabbed cold beers from coolers outside their vehicles. Some movie-goers spread blankets on the patchy grass. Kids played on the swings in front of the screen. Wynne pulled into a no parking space near the front.  A white 1973 Cadillac Eldorado convertible pulled in beside him. Wynne and the driver of the other car gave each other dirty looks.

Veteran prison guard Capt. Harvey Jones, the man in the Caddy, looked at his date.

I sure am glad we made up, Betsy, he said.

I wasn’t thinking straight, honey, said Betsy, who once served as the captain’s underling at the prison and elsewhere.

Ashley went live on Facebook with an a cappella punk song she wrote about the pandemic called “Germ Hostage.” Palmer popped a handful of pills while coughing into his hand. Bethany looked agitated.

That man in the car beside us is pawing at his lady friend in public, she said.

Don’t look, Wynne said.

Cool, Ashley said.

It’s inappropriate and making me uncomfortable, she said.

Leaning across her lap, Wynne yelled sat the adjacent driver.

Hey, knock it off, you’re upsetting my wife.

Harvey Jones removed his hands from Betsy’s personal parts and reached for the door handle. Stepping onto the gravel, he stood to full height, squared his shoulders and barked.

You got a problem, pal?

We’re here for a night of wholesome family fun and my wife and children are being subjected to you fondling that woman.

Betsy squawked.

I don’t like his tone one bit, Harvey.

Jones reached across Bethany, stretching deep into the open Lincoln Navigator window. He grabbed Wynne by the collar of his pink three-button polo shirt and pulled. In the back seat Palmer suddenly doubled over and started coughing up blood. He clutched his chest struggling to breathe. Bethany turned in her seat, struggling to pound her son on his back. Ashley kept the video rolling.

In the Cadillac, Betsy started coughing as well, holding her throat like JFK did when Lee Harvey Oswald pulled the trigger.

Startled, Harvey Jones released his grip on Wynne’s shirt.

Two ambulances with sirens screaming arrived one right after the other.

At the hospital Palmer went immediately on a ventilator, the doctors not sure if he overdosed on pain killers, was succumbing to a rapid COVID-19 attack or a combination of the two.

Betsy died quickly, another COVID-19 mystery stroke victim, her bloodstream riddled with coronavirus germs she picked at the prison and who knows where else.

The John Wick movie started late.