Daniel was just getting out of his truck when I reached the parking lot. Oh, great, we were supposed to have an editorial department meeting. How did I manage to forget that little detail? Maybe because I was trying to forget anything having to do with Daniel, thanks to the weird looks he had been giving me ever since we celebrated Angela and Ethan's wedding, and she threw her bridal bouquet right into my face.
"Hey, no
running out on me," Daniel called, laughing, as I sped down the ramp in my
wheelchair.
This was one of
those days when I was even more furious with all the damage done during the
whole doppelganger situation this past winter and spring. My healing had been
set back by years. I should have been leaving the office on my own two legs,
and maybe even run to my Jeep and jump in. No delays to get out of my chair and
fold it up and sling it into the back seat.
"Pastor
Rocky needs me," I said, and nearly ran him over, when he stepped into my
path.
At the last
moment, Daniel pivoted aside and grabbed the handles of my chair and turned me
toward his truck. He nearly tipped me out of my chair, but I caught on to what
he was doing, and levered myself up onto my feet in time to avoid doing a
face-plant against his passenger door. I was in and pulling the door closed by
the time he had my chair in the back of his truck and was getting into the
driver's seat.
Then I turned on
my phone and told Sherwood to fill us in.
"Read
this," he said, and kindly took over my phone so it switched over to a
music website devoted to rock'n'roll bands.
It featured Magna Magma's reunion tour. Sherwood only let me read a few paragraphs before he took over again, blowing up several pictures.
"That's Pastor Rocky. But it's not." I squinted at the images. "And there's Father Marty. But --" I swallowed, fighting a queasy sensation. "But that's not them. They're … younger."
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