Wild Card

By Jim Walker

Sometimes in a world of high-charged political action, an average man can make a difference. Art and Rhonda McLeod lived a simple life, something that they believed most people wanted, until an accident complicated things beyond anything that was reasonable. Due to his affliction, Art lost his job in information technology and an chances of ever working again. They ran the very real risk of ending up on the street. He and Rhonda decide on a dangerous way out of their mess that would take them to Las Vegas. They become embroiled in a plot to destroy Las Vegas’ High Roller Wheel during a society wedding, with a dangerous gangster and an Evangelical Minister aiming for the highest political office in the land. The couple must risk everything to save lives including those of their new friends when they discover that they are truly the ‘Wild Cards’ in a high stakes game of life and death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Walker
• Release date: Mar 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9780986623646

Jim Walker

Most of my writing centers around the West Coast of Canada, my love for the Rockies and travel. My books reflect the unusual and the exciting one can discover each and every day.

Book preview

Wild Card

by

Jim Walker

SMASHWORDS EDITON

* * * *

Published by

Jim Walker on Smashwords

Wild Card

Copyright © 2016, James (Jim) R. Walker

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

978-0-9866236-4-6

* * * *

To Natash, who taught us

the meaning of true grace and courage

and, as always, Irene

* * * *

Wild Card

* * * *

Part One

* * * *

We have to do the best we can.

This is our sacred human responsibility.

– Albert Einstein

One may suppose that Art would, without a doubt, meet any criteria that might be used to define, a nobody. No, perhaps the description may be restated as, normal.

In a culture that is constantly re-casting itself according to an ever-evolving list of ways to define one's identity, normal may possibly be considered to be unusual. He may not have the chiselled features of the current crop of movie heroes, but no one had smacked him with an ugly stick either. He is a little below average height, perhaps a little overweight; but still managing to pull off a reasonably put-together look. Tonight it is his blue blazer over new gray slacks. Perhaps he is a nonentity because he lacks the current flavour of charisma or an assertiveness vibe that may cause people to be more aware (of him).

That though, is about to change.

They stroll arm in arm into Rhonda's and his favourite steak house. One they visit quite often, as they are doing this lovely evening in early spring. They like the place for its old-fashioned hospitality, dependably exquisite service and beautifully prepared food and drink. They approach, in their turn, to the hostess’s desk. The young lady attired in a black Scala evening dress that presents her figure to good effect, glances up from her seating plan and smiles …

… over Rhonda and Art's heads at the rather tall couple standing somewhat behind and slightly to one side of them.

The man and woman are beings that happen to be defined, by those who set such benchmarks, as belonging to the beautiful people sub-species of humanity. They definitely appear to have loads of charisma. He asserts himself by raising his hand and snapping his fingers with the expectation of an immediate response, from somebody.

Art sees the hostess managing to tear her eyes away from the prepossessing pair to eventually espy those immediately before her. Hello, he says, reading her name tag; Megan. We have a 6 o’clock reservation.

She nods, her cheerful face conveying every appearance of an awareness of Rhonda and Art. Possibly, unfortunately, just then Megan's attention is again yanked away. Her head pivots to follow the manager hustling past her station. He says, a hearty voice booming above the muted lobby conversations, welcome Jack, Dianne.

The manager is looking about as if to confirm if anyone notices that he and the celebrity couple are on a first name basis. He leans in past Jack’s handshake to receive an air-buss somewhere in the region of his left cheek from Dianne. His hand slides up to Jack’s elbow while Dianne takes his other arm. As he escorts the couple past the reception desk toward the dining room, I have your usual table ready.

Art wonders if the usual table sits vacant on the off chance that they will show up, or perhaps whoever is seated there will have been hustled to another table. Whether Ronnie and he have a reservation at this particular moment appears to be somewhat moot.

Now, this does not mean that they do not assert themselves when necessary. In point of fact he has become rather good over his fifty-odd years on the planet at occasionally making his presence felt; mostly through a kind of weary persistence along with a pleasant sounding baritone voice. Beauty is not always in the eye of the beholder; sometimes the ears get into the act.

He says, with just enough volume to overcome the quiet babble behind; excuse me, Megan.

Her head, which had been following the three down the corridor behind her pivots to the front. Eyebrows arch over wide blue eyes. Her mouth parts slightly, perhaps to speak. Right, there are actually two people standing right here, in front of her. Uh…?

We have a reservation, for McLeod. Party of two.

Her hands flutter over the book spread open on the sloped desktop, ebon nail polish flashing in the subdued wash of the desk lamp arched over the pages.

Why, why yes? she says, as if unsure about how the name has popped up on her list.

Her voice sounds, as if she has discovered something extraordinary before her. He was tempted to lean over and take a look. Art exchanges glances with Rhonda. He gently shakes his head.

I suppose it doesn’t take much to surprise some people.

Meanwhile, the boss and his guests are almost to the dining room’s entrance. He casts an imperious sounding, table six, into the air. He then bends closer to hear some remark Diane has made, which occasions a laugh; that to Art's ears sounds a little forced.

The hostess who, apparently having lost her cool, snatches menus from the standing desk's hidden reaches; one falling to the floor, ignored. She hastily marks up with a grease pencil the old fashioned seating chart that the steakhouse prefers. Megan then disappears after the trio into the dusky recesses her heels tap, tap, tapping on distressed hardwood as she hastens to catch up.

Another young lady cast from the same mould as the first, complete with the black fashionable frock, materialises before them. Yes?

Art suppresses a sigh. He repeats their information, although she had been close enough, sort of waiting in the wings, to hear the first iteration. He is determined to not let this foolishness dampen the evening, giving her his most pleasant smile.

Rhonda grips his forearm, a signal that she is beginning to feel like they are making a scene. She glances at the people now crowding the foyer behind. She knows from the way she reads their expressions that some are not too pleased by the couple at the front of the line creating a log jam; beautiful, celebrity-type people notwithstanding.

This hostess, like her peer, nods and smiles. She, finally, scratches at the reservation book, marks the seating plan and pulls the menus. Without another word, she turns to the dining room’s French doors apparently in full and certain confidence that her charges are trailing close behind.

They enter and wind their way through a maze of low-lit tables.

The lighting, the comfortable, well-padded seating and dark table linens imply an air of grace. Bustling wait-staff flow quietly about as if in some graceful pavane attending to their guests’ spoken and unspoken desires. Conversations rise and fall as: selections are placed; ice tinkles into glassware; wine is uncorked and poured. Perhaps that young man over there will choose this evening to propose to the nervous young lady fingering her napkin. There is a group nearby raising glasses in the direction of an older couple apparently celebrating a landmark in their lives.

Now, one may conclude that the earlier kerfuffle at the entrance is pretty rare. Perhaps, despite its reputation as one of the better dining establishments in the city, the steakhouse is not all it is cracked up to be. That is, they will let just anyone in. Not really. Art has lived as normal in what feels like a celebrity crazy world his entire life.

It is like, on a crowded bus; people would be startled when he registers in their consciousness. Usually when they discover him standing quietly in a space they are about to occupy as the bus loads and passengers are encouraged to move to the back, where he had done so stops earlier. They often voice their discomfiture, usually with a quiet apology or sometimes, simply push past while staring at something unseen in the distance.

This happens pretty regularly. He has occasionally wondered if he takes the concept of nonentity rather to the far side of some sort of statistical curve. He considers it a miracle that Ronnie had picked him, much less that they have been mainly happily married for thirty odd years. He stops wool gathering as they approach a table for two centered in a little alcove off the main room.

The couple that had entered before, by contrast, are ensconced in a rather well lit corner. Perhaps to be seen as well as to see. He is glad that the cozy little alcove was available. The hostess gracefully sweeps the reserved plaque from the table. He nods thanks to her as he insures that Rhonda is comfortably seated. He turns to his own chair.

The hostess, meanwhile, has handed off to a young man equally stylishly clad, who announces that he is, Erich. He is pleased to have them in his care. He places Rhonda’s napkin in her lap while flashing a practiced smile that is sure to send shivers along her spine. Art waves him away extracting and placing his own cloth. His smile, he hopes, mitigating any feelings of rejection that Erich might suffer. After all, this is their anniversary, always a happy event.

Erich then proceeds to announce the specials, while receiving from the hostess and passing on to his charges, the oversized, leather bound menus the establishment favours. He follows that up with a quiet request for their drink orders.

The lady will have the Quail’s Gate Chardonnay.

Rhonda continues the ceremony, and the gentleman will have a Brandy Manhattan straight up with two cherries.

They exchange grins as Erich turns away to fulfill their request.

Art, look over there.

He did not exactly need prompting. The rising voices across the room pretty much draw everyone’s attention. Another woman; one might define as equally beautiful as the seated couple except for her ugly expression, has accosted them.

There is something about the voices of two women under stress that can be very disturbing at some visceral level even when both are at least trying to keep their voices down. In this case, rather typically of these (to Art's thinking) self-involved sorts, neither woman appears to be all that concerned about disturbing the restaurant's other guests.

At first the people seated nearby turn away attempting to provide the threesome with what privacy there is to be had. Their good intentions are quickly destroyed when the seated woman stands up. She leans into the other woman.

You dumped him ages ago, she grates, now seriously in the other’s face.

Some of the diners look about, perhaps to see if there are any cameras. Maybe, they are thinking that this is a scene from one of those reality-TV shows about rich (in this case, bitches).

Art shakes his head at the incongruous thought. It is only two women making a scene.

You stole him from me you bitch! The newcomer takes a swing at the other woman, solidly connecting with a slap that the entire room cannot miss hearing.

The susurration of voices fades. People about the room lower silver and glassware. Those who are able to do so, turn fully toward the unfolding scene. Some line up phone cameras to catch a shot of the victim falling, legs parted, heels high onto the upholstered bench on which, she and her paramour had been not too subtly canoodling. Her out flung arm smashes into tableware some of which shatters on the floor.

Satisfied that she has made her point the assailant mouths another, bitch. She turns her back on the couple at the table. She glares in the direction of a sudden flash as someone captures the moment, or at least the woman's ugly expression.

Art believes he is the only one who sees the object, which the woman on the bench pulls from her clutch purse. It appears to be something rather innocuous-looking in chrome and pearl, possibly a cigarette lighter?

That is, until he sees her raise it to take aim at the other woman who is passing behind him. His chair clatters onto the hardwood as he springs up to push her to the floor, eliciting a startled shriek accompanied by a flat pop, like a ladyfinger firecracker from the days of his childhood. The report seems to echo forever in the room amid the white flashes of camera strobes.

The shooter’s companion finally catches up with events. He grabs her wrist and jerks the pistol upward as a second shot explodes into the ceiling sending shards of plaster and dust cascading.

Art never felt the first slug that had creased his left temple. He does, however hear Ronnie’s scream before everything spins down to black.

* * * *

"It's bad enough that life is a rat-race,

but why do the rats always have to win?"

– Anonymous

Art vaguely recalls the ambulance. He remembers Ronnie's concerned expression. She holding his hand as they wheel him away.

Was that after dinner? Which dinner? Our anniversary? Where am I now …?

Then there was light. Perhaps that is too bold a statement, which suggests a bright, happy sunshiny day where one does not have a care in the world.

This is more like having to endure the glare from an ancient Samsung 19-inch CRT type display. It is a device from the previous century, which some facilities person had pulled from a surplus storeroom to place back in use. It appears to reflect more of the greenish hue of the fluorescents above him than the actual characters he is squinting at on the screen.

He sighs; time to think about getting some new computer glasses. That's it. I'm at work. But this doesn't feel right.

His phone trills the Caribbean steel drum beat: Hot, Hot, Hot, of the custom ring tone he likes. At least that sound evokes thoughts of some sun washed, tropical beach that he and Ronnie have often talked about visiting one day. It is the day’s first call. It certainly will not be the last. He attempts to settle the headphone’s ear pad more comfortably over his left ear. It is an ill-fitting headset over an ear that feels as if he has gone ten rounds with a boxer who likes abusing ears. It has been that kind of week. He gusts a silent sigh and girds himself for what is about to come.

Why am I wearing a breechclout? Like some caricature of an Indian swami charming a King Cobra …

Service Desk, Art speaking. How may I …

His greeting is cut off by a squawk ripping through the earphone. He eventually gets his chance in when the caller has to take a breath, … paper jam?

Another vocal avalanche crackles through the earpiece.

Oh, out of paper?

He had been working the mouse pointer across the display. He stops. The arrow’s point hovers indecisively between the ‘e’ and ‘a’ in Search. He had been about to click on the New Ticket button to the left of the Search button on the application they use to log and dispatch calls.

Sorry, he says, trying to bend some sincerity into his tone, technical support does not replace paper in printers.

The racket from the other end of the phone line feels like the boxer has decided to take another couple of earshots, both landing precisely where they will inflict the most pain. The knockout blow comes smacking past the ear pad when the caller slams her phone into the cradle.

This time anyone in the adjacent cubicles who cares to listen can hear Art's sigh when he pushes the disconnect button. He has also pressed the mute button disabling the boom mike on his headset, just to be on the safe side.

I am in the middle of a block of cubicles stretching to some endless horizon. This is not where I work. Where do I work?

Wonder how long it will take for Gerry to call me? His voice is low so as to not disturb his fellow cube mice. He does not bother to look around to see if the person in question is even present.

Art’s titular supervisor is very strong on, Quality Client Support. He will even tell you that – repeatedly at every opportunity; he is very strong on Quality Client Support.

Art swears that one can hear the capital letters whenever Gerry intones the Words. He is sure that Gerry believes himself to be the high priest and primary prophet of the Temple of Client Support.

Art winces, which is a pretty minimal description of what is happening to him. He can feel the aura of a migraine coming on. It is like he is looking through the ripples of an ancient glass window on a sunny day. Art considers it to be the perfect metaphor for the way his head feels with the onset of one of his headaches. He sees everything as if though through frozen liquid ripples.

It is as if all of it: energy, ambition, good humour; flows into some sort of transparent, meaningless sludge at the base of his skull. He sighs yet again, with no other way to express his feelings as such; and dry swallows a couple of painkillers. Usually, when he gets these things, the waves will hit a little before noon. Today, it looks like there will be an early start to the suffering. He rummages through his desk drawer hoping to find some of the cheese that he has cached for just such an occasion.

A mouse that looks very much like an old fashioned, corded MS Mouse looks up out of the drawer flashes a wicked grin and gobbles down the last bits of the cheese.

He abandons his quest. Another call. He connects and bends his voice into cheerful tones as he works through the caller’s situation.

Sometime during the call, he becomes aware of that electric feeling like static raising the hair on his arms or at the back of his neck. Maybe it is the way the air in the cubicle gusts slightly against his body; or a feeling like the cubicle's temperature went up to blood heat. Whatever it is, Art knows someone is standing close behind him; knows without having to look that Gerry is hovering.

Art ignores the Presence while assisting the caller, which is Job One.

…Good. Now right-click on ‘My Computer’ to display the menu, then click on ‘properties’ to display the computer’s properties window. There should be a tab called ‘computer name’. Click on that.

… Hello?

… Oh. I see. Well, that’s good to hear. I hope she will be able to finish this for you. Have a good day.

Art disconnects and punches out of the hunt circuit. He will update the ticket after dealing with Gerry. Meanwhile, any in-coming calls will bypass his phone to those of his colleagues; at least that is the theory. He carefully unplugs his headset and hangs it around his neck. One of the techs showed up.

Another agent had logged the call about twenty minutes earlier however the caller, although she had been told the wait time, had decided that she needed a more immediate response.

Composing what he hopes is a neutral expression he faces the inevitable and turns. He has released his chair back so that he can lean away to look up. Truth to tell, it is also so he can get a little bit more space between them just to breath. Standing to face him is out of the question in the close confines of his cubicle, unless he wishes to bump against him chest to chest.

It is as if a fog has rolled into my space. Why does it smell like rotten eggs, like some hellish exhalation from a volcano?

Art does not smoke. Gerry decidedly does. Art feels his nose beginning to plug up and his eyes water on top of the migraine surge. Of course the man standing just leans forward replicating the angle of Art’s chair. There are signs all over the office requesting that people respect others and tone down their scents. Apparently that does not apply to the supervisory personnel, or at least not to this supervisor.

Hmmm… As if that conveys understanding, then a nod and then he straightens having, as far as he is concerned, made his point. Art is not sure just what point Gerry is attempting to make. Maybe it is not so much as to make a point as to establish dominance.

Fat chance.

Gerry takes off his glasses, which always appear to be vaguely askew on an otherwise bland, normally proportioned face with bulging eyes. He peers through them up toward the overhead fluorescents.

Tsk, he says.

Art is pretty sure he is not commenting on the flickering light fixture. He is not sure, however, if he means a smudge on his glasses or a stain on Art’s Quality Client Support report card.

Why am I wearing a school uniform, complete with a cap? I never went to a British public school …

Gerry pulls a cloth that has long passed, dirty, from a pocket and polishes the glass, peers at them again, nods and mounts them on his nose.

Art does not see any improvement. The light reflecting off the over-sized lenses almost hides his washed out, blue eyes under smudges and tiny flakes of dander.

Thanks for small favours.

Tsk; Gerry repeats.

I guess he is not commenting on his eyeglasses.

That was an executive assistant.

Art glances at the phone.

No, your other call.

I suppose Gerry is either on the woman’s speed dial or he has been snooping (uh, monitoring) calls (for quality control, that is).

She is a very busy person with a lot of responsibilities. Perhaps it would have been better to have had assisted her. A call ticket would have been appropriate under the circumstances, he directs.

Now I will have to go and settle her feathers, he says. The call centre is a fifteen-minute drive to her office.

I thought that …

That’s right, Gerry pounces. You did not think. These are the very same people who approve our budget.

Gerry sees Art raise an eyebrow at the hyperbole. He chooses to ignore it. Perhaps because IT support had been outsourced years ago.

It is one of the reasons underlying my present situation.

Gerry’s rant, budgets notwithstanding, still does not explain why a service desk agent should drop everything to get someone to help a secretary change the paper in the printer by her desk; something that she should be able to do anyway.

The surge of irritation becomes a counterpoint to the throb at his temple, which feels like it is beating to the staccato rhythm of the little man’s honking voice. It is not as if she never used the damn thing. Or, maybe she could not intimidate some office flunky into changing the paper, which is the more probable scenario.

Gerry eventually takes off his glasses, pulls the cloth and polishes the lenses signalling the end of his tirade, uh, counselling session.

It is times like this that Art is quite prepared to walk away from it all. Then he would take a breath, think of Rhonda, the house and their dreams; and grit his teeth. Only two more years, ring through his thoughts tolling out the days until he can leave. Or, reaching up to touch his temple, he might die of an aneurysm before then – relief either way.

An open casket lay on the floor just outside the cubicle. If I’m in the casket, who is sitting here?

Art does not always have such black thoughts. Why, back in the day when he had an actual office space …

… He jolts back to the now when Gerry says, I suppose we can overlook this oversight at this time as you are still getting acquainted with our processes. He remounts his glasses, pivots and, waving toward the flashing indicators on the phone snaps, hadn’t you better be attending to calls?

Gerry either decides to ignore Art or did not hear him, I would have, if you had not been wasting my time.

He hears his supervisor walk away, decisively, as he probably had been taught at one of the many supervisory workshops that he supposedly attends. Art’s sense of humour, never far away, comes to his rescue. I wonder if someone uses him for earthquake testing?

He thinks that Gerry has a pretty heavy tread for such a little man. He is sure that the pencils are rattling in the cup on his desk as he watches the top of Gerry's head bob by his cubicle's divider. The nascent grin collapses when Art sees that all of the extensions had lit up while Gerry was delivering a mentoring session during the busiest call-in time. Where is everybody?

… Service desk, Art speaking.

The pills have finally pushed the headache's assault into retreat, leaving him with the mushy feeling he often feels at his left temple after an episode.

He wonders how Ronnie’s morning is going.

She appears to be sitting on a very large armchair, together with her boss at the mortgage brokerage, both flinging scads of cash to a field of hands all grasping for the money …

He gets the last person, finally, sorted out with a new application that had not installed properly on one of the ancient computers that many are still using. It is one of the reasons that Art is with the service desk as an expert on an operating system that the Company's clients have been slow to replace.

The little digital clock on his phone reshapes its pixels: ten-to-ten, which evokes a smile, coffee time. The upward pull on his lips collapses when it looks as if everyone has logged out of the hunt line early. Fuming, he logs back in. One of these days I should just let everyone go to hell, he says, although he is pretty sure no one is listening.

I am sure I can smell brimstone …

The problem is, old son, you wouldn’t like yourself very much if you did that.

OK, he will hang-in until ten-fifteen or so, when the others eventually drift back in to the call centre. They will be in their cubes by then, but that does not mean that he can feel justified about going on his break. They have to get organized, burning another ten minutes or so. Then he feels that he will have to wait a little longer while they blow another ten calling family, or looking up something on the Internet, or making appointments.

By then the mandated fifteen-minute break has, on occasion, extended into a forty-five minute marathon with the calls queuing up. People forced to wait on a phone line that does nothing for them other than having them to listen to a recorded message. Art hates that message. If he has to postpone his break so that the people he is here to help do not have to endure it, he is proud to do so.

Why am I pumping water over the side of a badly listing ship?

It has been over the years a good, quiet life. Even with them dealing with all the challenges; many coming too quickly to sometimes fully comprehend, much less handle in any rational way. He and Rhonda have been preoccupied of late with all that has happened to their careers. Often they have talked about there being more to life than the huge preoccupation with survival. The problem is, like many of his contemporaries, Art is in the, near the end of the career, trap. He has too much invested in time, pension points and salary level to give it all up; forced to live on a severely reduced income – at the very least.

Ronnie and me are sitting in an empty refrigerator carton beating off a cat …

His smile collapses. Maybe it is time for me to find something else.

He knows that the odds at his age, with the kind of work he does, in this economy, are pretty much against any kind of meaningful career change. It is right up there with getting struck by lightning or hitting a lottery jackpot. His choices are to stay the course with a frozen salary or take a reduced pension that will barely put food on the table much less pay off a mortgage.

Still, Art reckons that he probably has the best of it; that is most of the time. The phones are generally pretty quiet during the morning break. The people they support, like his co-workers, have the same urges to get their nicotine and caffeine fixes.

Why am I standing in an endless coffee shop line? I see people picking up their orders, however the line never seems to move. A huge clock in front of me clacks as the minute hand moves closer to a sign: Break is Over. Two huge bouncers, their fingers twitching in anticipation, look as if they are ready to hustle me out of the coffee shop.

Or maybe, at least, get a bigger space. His thoughts turn, yet again, to finding another job.

Art leans back in his chair careful to avoid bumping his head against the only bright spot in an otherwise dull, grey-blue burlap-textured enclosure: a classic aircraft photo calendar. It hangs askew from two large paper clips that have been bent to serve as hooks set in the cubicle’s fabric. If Art stretches his arms, he can easily touch both sides of his space while looking at his computer monitor.

I feel the walls of my cubicle floating away as I hear the happy, island sound of the phone …

Art rocks forward and presses the connect button while glancing at the call display, an outside line.

Hey, you old reprobate!

He recognises the number. It is safe to stray from the acceptable Quality Customer Service greeting on this call. He glances at the photo of an inverted Pitts Special on his desk wondering if he will be able to cadge another ride.

… Sure, we’re still on for tonight.

… Yup. See you and Clarisse around eightish?

… Nope. Ronnie has that all in hand. Just bring your lovely selves.

Art knows that Fred and Clarisse are always good for some exotically labelled bottle of wine. Fred is a self-admitted oenophile. He is always trotting out some vintage or other from some exotic location for Rhonda and him to try out. Art is pretty sure that his palate is about as uneducated as one can get over a couple of decades of trying. The wines all pretty much taste the same to him. Still he appreciates the gesture.

He had helped Fred with a computer issue, involving a ransom ware attack, a few years back. It seems, since then that he is always trying to express his thanks.

… Yeah, we would love to see the pictures.

He considers for a moment that he and Rhonda live vicariously through their friends’ adventures. He never understood what they see in either him or Rhonda that has maintained the decades-long relationship. Perhaps it is the stability of his and Ronnie's marriage through the years of ups-and-downs that they find attractive; sort of an island of constancy in a turbulent world.

Fred and Clarisse’s life is not exactly a study in solidity. The laugh lines around his eyes crease as he thinks about the six months that they had, gone on a break, over some trivial thing or other that no one even remembers; and that this is the first trip since their honeymoon they had taken, together.

"… Sure bring it with you, we’d love to