There
ought to be a law against a workday landing between Christmas and the weekend. I
knew what waited for me. The half-awake feeling of the day after a holiday at
the newspaper office. Everyone straggling in, fighting the don’t-I-get-a-holiday-too
pokiness of the computers. The computers at our office made me believe in
animism—inorganic objects having sentience. For instance, in college, my
adviser celebrated the first snowfall of the season throwing snowballs at the
window of the Humanities dean … until one snowball broke it. When we had a freeze
two days later, the only pipes on the entire Willis-Brooks College campus that
froze and broke were in his office. Animism.
My brain still
churned over our breakfast conference, the poisoned dart in my neck, and the
adrenaline rush of having had my life threatened. I could have claimed some
invalid status, either physical or emotional. But no, I had responsibility
branded into my genetic structure by my parents. Which was weird, considering
what hippies they were.
So with
heavy heart and slushy gloves, I pushed my chair through the sludge filling the
parking lot and up the ramp to the office door. And nearly got brained by the
door when Daniel pushed it open just as I was reaching for the handle.
Yes, I
had finally gotten into the habit of calling him Daniel instead of the Evil
Overlord. Honestly, how could I hate a fellow Trekker who was a not-so-secret-anymore
fan of my comedy?
“What are
you doing here?” I nearly forgot to grab at my wheels to keep from sliding
backwards down the ramp.
Having the new owner show up before the office was officially open for business was odd enough to be suspicious.
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