Are We Monsters

By Rollin Miller

As the rest of the world stumbled haphazardly into the future, the rural county of Ridgeway, Nevada remained stuck in the past. It held little distinction other than the desert, cold beer and boredom. However, that was about to change when a girl, wearing a tattered dress and nothing else but a strange tattoo on her arm appeared at a roadside café.

When no one could identify her, the owner figured she must have walked out of the desert. It was a feat made more amazing by the fact of the blistering summer temperature and that her feet were bare. Calling the sheriff's office, he described her condition as "in a bad way."

Her arrival will eventually reveal a well-hidden ball already in play. It was a frightening version of the future of which she had a significant role, though she was unaware of it and what she was capable of. Her soon encounter with the hard-nosed sheriff Tom Woods, will put her at terrible odds with the creator of that future, NeosGen Corporation and its founder, Kurt Hollenpege.

With only sheriff Tom Woods and his team of deputies standing in the way, those who scientifically harnessed the secrets of overcoming all human limitations and afflictions appeared unstoppable. Wearing his 45 Colt low on his waist with his Winchester nearly always in reach, he made the call to keep the girl safe and stop those who had decided to play God.

The most high tech device the sheriff owned was a flip-phone, which was his preference because it was easy. And he liked doin' easy. The trouble is that what is coming is anything but.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rollin Miller
• Release date: Sep 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393665397

Rollin Miller

Rollin Miller, the author of Are We Monsters?, Virgin Birth, and the dystopian thriller 2520 The Last Day, recently retired and lives with his wife in Las Vegas, Nevada. Rollin is currently at work on a series of novellas titled Havoc Tales. The title comes from the lead character, Jack Havoc, who leads a specially chosen team in dealing with the frighteningly unimaginable. 

Book preview

Are We Monsters?

Chapter 1

IF YOU WERE TO HOP in your truck and drive off in any direction in this desert, you would be hard-pressed to find more than a dozen or so people you might be tempted to call your neighbors. But don’t get too close as it is doubtful that many of them would be neighborly. Those you come across would more than likely be living in dilapidated conditions, lean-to buildings that were not that way by design, and decades-old tin can trailers. Their colors are burned away by the unrelenting sun. Their windows are garnished with makeshift curtains cut from old bedsheets flapping in the hot breeze. And through the broken panes, you just might face the end of a double-barrel shotgun.

At least that’s what it’s like in the desert surrounding Ridgeway, Nevada.

Whether neighborly or not, those living there, or at least most of them, arrived through no fault of their own, by birth. But the fact they remain once having the means to do otherwise is a head-scratcher and rests squarely on them.

Apart from these scant few neighbors, the desert appears as if staring across the vast terrain of a pockmarked and lonely moon. But a barren appearance does not necessarily make it so. Kick a few bushes, overturn some rocks, or crawl beneath the underbelly of an abandoned pickup truck, and life will eventually look you in the eye. Sometimes getting that close is a mistake, the fatal kind.

Sheriff Tom Woods rarely made such mistakes. Being one of those who chose to remain in Ridgeway, he learned to respect the desert and what lived in it from a young age. He rarely went poking around, and when he did, it was only because he had to.

His familiarity with the desert caused him to pay little attention to it. However, he was always aware of its presence and maintained respect for what it could do to a man. He just kept things in perspective and survival equipment in his trunk because you never know.

Four months out of the year, the heat was so unforgiving that no one could ignore it. Today was one of those unforgiving days. He drove the highway in his cruiser, his mind wandering snow-capped peaks, white sandy beaches, and deep, cold water lakes, the best kind for swimming. Those well-exercised thoughts were routinely brought out during those four months of hell, but they never traveled alone. Snow and water were always joined by his mind wondering what in the hell he was doing out here day after day, snaking down this blistering highway chasing mirages.

Reaching for his handkerchief, Tom pulled off his drugstore sunglasses and dropped them in the hot vinyl seat next to him. He pressed the hanky to his face, dabbing the sweat from his forehead and probing the sunken areas around his eyes. While the desert sped by, his thoughts shifted to being home, stripped down to bare necessities, splayed out in front of a floor fan, a frosty brew in his hand. It was already the third time today that his mind played out that particular thought, the first time just after the mercury marched north of 110. It probably wouldn’t be the last.

Moving to the back of his neck, he sopped the sweat which had not yet soaked into his collar as best as he could before shaking the cloth and draping it over his knee to dry. Picking up his sunglasses, he held them up for a closer look, grunting in annoyance at the moisture-laden lenses, the right one smeared with a partial print. With no good way to clean them, he reluctantly tossed them back on the seat.

The glare of the sun bouncing off the hood of his cruiser was annoying, and his visor provided little help. Squinting when he had to, his eyes eventually grew tired along with the rest of him. But it was the mesmerizing effect of driving those long hours that threatened to put him to sleep. The steady drone of rolling tire tread on asphalt was like a one-note lullaby.

Fighting his drowsiness, he switched on the radio, adjusting the tuning knob as he searched for anything resembling classic and rock as long as both were in the same song. He ran through the full range of frequencies like a baler cutting hay. It was generally a waste of time in this section of the county, both for growing fodder and finding anything good to listen to. Today was no different. The only sounds coming from his speakers ranged from a gentle beehive hum to a gritty power line static with a little political poison thrown in for good measure.

Frustrated, he turned it off, cocked his hand, and punched the steering wheel. His mind rolodexed through his long list of favorites, finally settling on a real rockin’ highway song that fit the moment and his mood perfectly. Deciding it was time to make his own music, he started humming.

The road coiled and struck like a snake, rising and falling over the rolling desert ground. His hands choked the steering wheel as he maintained his speed, rushing through a particularly dangerous section of highway adorned by sun-bleached crosses and dried flowers. Adrenalin coursed through his body from the roller-coaster road, shocking him awake as he pushed the cruiser faster.

His humming grew louder, amped up as he entered another set of tension-pumping curves. Giving way to the familiar lyrics, he abandoned his humming and started singing, something he would never do if anyone else was riding with him. His head bobbed, and shoulders swayed to his off-key singalong. It didn’t last long.

Sheriff, this is base. Come in.

He smiled at her this is base, as if he or any of his deputies couldn’t figure that out. He continued to sing, leaving her to sit waiting at the radio until he finished his song, which didn’t quite happen as his mind went blank, forgetting the last two or three lines. So much for familiarity. Taking note of the time, he grabbed the handset. I’m here, Carla.

Sheriff, Grady Wellman just called, and you know how he can be. Well, today, I can honestly say that he sounds even stranger than he normally does. Rattled is probably the best way I could describe him. Anyhow, he asked that you hightail it over to the restaurant.

Hightail it, huh? the sheriff said.

His exact words.

Grady had always been a bit of an odd one; that much was certain. Letting up on the gas, Tom started looking for a spot to turn around. He learned a long time ago to pay attention to Carla whenever she was sizing up a person or a situation.

The sweat battle continued. A bead clung to his forehead for a few moments before cascading down along the ridge of his nose. It hung on the tip for a little bit longer before taking the high dive onto his upper lip. Any hope of heading home for skivvies, a beer, and a high-speed fan was slipping away as he fiddled with the air conditioning controls for the hundredth time. The AC was barely alive.

Did Grady say what it was about?

Only that some odd little thing of a girl had shown up in the café.

Slowing further, he eased the cruiser to the shoulder. He could feel several new beads of sweat on his forehead. He was losing the battle. Reaching up, he wiped his face with his shirt sleeve as he stared out the window. He looked where the carpet of desert brown met the base of the mountainous gray giants.

What was odd about her? he asked.

He said that she looked shabby, which shouldn’t come as much of a surprise since she apparently walked out of the desert in her bare feet. Oh yes, and he said that he couldn’t understand a word she was saying.

After another quick look in his mirror, Tom spun the wheel and pulled back out on the road toward town.

I am headed there now, he said, his speed climbing. I’m about twenty minutes north of Traveler’s Café, just south of the dry wash, but I will get there are fast as I can. Is Shelly in the office?

She’s pouring herself a cup. Hang on, and I’ll get her.

No need. Just tell her to get over there. And call Grady back. Find out if anyone called an ambulance.

He did.

Good. If the girl gets transported to Desert Community before I get there, tell Shelly to follow them over to the hospital and let me know.

I will.

Releasing the handset switch, Tom took a deep breath. He braced his arms, pressing him back into the hot and sweaty seat as he pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The cruiser’s engine roared, sending the speedometer needle even higher. The sun beat down on the exposed skin of his arm. It made him wish he had worn a long-sleeved shirt as he looked out the window in the sun’s direction. He squinted and turned away as the brilliance of the orb forced his eyes into a hasty retreat. Grabbing his now dried handkerchief for another pat-down, he stared at the empty road racing toward him. He thought about what Carla said. He had no real reason to be in such a hurry, and yet here he was, erasing the speed limit as he put his lights on.

She walked out of the desert?

WHEN THE SHERIFF PULLED in, the ambulance had already left for the hospital with his deputy close behind. Inside he found Grady, nervously wiping down the counter, talking too fast even for him.

Tom took his time, sitting down at the counter, pulling out his pencil and notepad, while Grady continued rubbing. He grinned as he listened to Grady’s meandering conversation, waiting for a moment to break in. That moment came when a customer waved at Grady on their way out.

So, Grady, Tom began, do you want to tell me what’s going on?

As Grady flopped the rag down on the counter and started rubbing the shine off, he stopped and looked up at the sheriff. His saucered eyes stared without blinking. Never been anything like that around here, he said, his cheeks puffing out and his face turning red as he did. No sir, never.

You’re talking about the girl, right? Tom held his pencil close.

Well, she may have looked like a girl, but— he turned away, his eyes sweeping the room before coming to rest, back on the sheriff. He huffed, and his saucered eyes narrowed. He leaned in closer. She may have looked like a girl, but you know, who knows what she really was?

Tom raised his eyebrows as he leaned back. What exactly are you saying, Grady?

Sweat erupted on Grady’s puffy face like an outbreak of measles. She walked into my place straight out of the desert, sheriff. And she did it without wearing any shoes. He shook his head, the rubbing continued. It’s hotter than hell out there. No normal girl could’ve done that, he said, that’s all I’m saying. Look at her feet. Look at her feet. His voice faded, and the rubbing ended, the rag thrown over his shoulder.

All right, Grady, I’ll check out her feet. As rattled as Grady was, Tom knew he wasn’t going to get anything more from him. I’m going to talk with your employees and anyone else that was here when the girl came in, Tom said, slipping the notepad and pencil in his pocket. Grady merely nodded, turning his back as the sheriff spoke first to the waitress before heading to the kitchen to talk with the cook.

When he finished with their statements, Tom turned his attention to the only customers in the place, a young couple who were on their way to Reno to get married. They were pleasant and willing to help, telling him everything they saw and heard. It didn’t take long to get through their story, which added little to what the sheriff already knew. Thanking them for their cooperation, he turned his attention back to Grady.

Well, I think I’m done here, Tom said, noting Grady’s disapproving face. If you think of anything else, you give us a ring, okay?

Grady leaned back and nodded. Don’t you worry about that.

Stepping out, the sheriff let the screen door close behind him before turning to take another look at Grady. Carla was right. That girl really shook him up.

After leaving the relative comfort of the restaurant with its whirling ceiling fans, and indoor shade, Tom was jolted by the heat as he walked over to his car. The patch of shade that covered most of his windshield when he arrived had vanished. All that was left of the shade could barely be called a sliver, offering no help in keeping his car from turning into an oven. As he slid in behind the hot steering wheel, he reached for his phone.

While it was cellular, his big button flip phone was anything but smart. There was no bright screen with neatly arranged buttons—icons, as Shelly called them. It didn’t have any internet access, and there wasn’t any GPS feature, though he had to admit, but only to himself, that having GPS might come in handy one of these days. But all smartness aside, it did the job and was easy to use. And Tom Woods was all for ‘doing easy’ as he put the phone to his ear.

Hey, Shelly, he said.

Sheriff.

I just finished talking with Grady, his employees, and a young couple on their way to Reno to get married. They all provided a consistent description of the girl, her clothing, and her bare feet. They also all said they couldn’t understand what the girl was saying except for one word.

God, Shelly said.

Yeah, that’s right, he said.

We just got here at the hospital, and from the moment we arrived, it’s been like opening a spigot. The girl has been really wild-eyed, her head on a swivel as they wheeled her in on the gurney. She’s been crying God, God, God. Pretty nerve-wracking. Right now, they have her in an exam room, and it sounds pretty quiet out here in the hallway. Hopefully, she’s calmed down.

There was an uncomfortably long pause. Are you still there, sheriff?

Yeah, he answered, sweat pouring down as he sat in his car, baking in the heat. Pulling the door closed, he started the car and turned on the air conditioning, smacking the console as if to intimidate it into giving him some cold air. It didn’t work.

You think she is part of some cult? she said.

Not a clue at this point, he said as he reached over and picked up his sunglasses. Too hot to wear, he popped open the glove box and tossed them inside. What I do know is that a lot of strange things go on out there in Nevada’s no-mans-land.

I know, she sighed, but sometimes I don’t want to know—if you know what I mean.

He did, and for the most part, felt the same way. Looking over his shoulder, he started backing up. I’m leaving now and heading for the hospital.

We’ll be here, Shelly said. It shouldn’t be too long until we know something. Of course, it doesn’t help with either the doctor’s examination or our investigation if no one can understand what she’s saying. But—

What are you thinking?

Nothing I can put my finger on. It’s just that there’s something about the language the girl is speaking.

I’m listening, the sheriff said as he pulled out on the highway.

Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you thought I was a little crazy, but I think she understands me when I ask her questions—something in her eyes. Whatever is going on, I think she might be hiding behind it.

You might be right, he said. Hopefully, once the doctor clears her, we’ll be able to get to the bottom of all of this and figure out who she is.

I took her picture and sent it over to Kelsi. He’s running it through missing persons. Maybe we’ll get a hit.

For a split second, Tom wanted to ask her how she was able to do that. Then he remembered her phone was a lot smarter than his and kept his mouth shut.

Good thinking, he said, speeding to the hospital, suddenly aware that he was starting to feel comfortable. Putting his hand over one of the AC vents, he was surprised to find that cool air was coming out. Since we are waiting for the doctor to finish up his examination of the girl, I’m going to stop by and see Duane. I want him working with Kelsi on this. She could be a runaway, or maybe she walked away from an accident.

I’ll stay here at the hospital and keep you posted, Shelly said.

See you soon, the sheriff said, smiling as the cold air gave him a shiver.

FOR ANYONE TO BECOME successful in business, they must, by necessity, have strong and loyal people at their side. There are many other valuable attributes, some of which would be vital to certain organizations, particularly those who walk with one foot in the light and the other in the darkness.

Dorman Mellor handily met the first two requirements of strength and loyalty, but it was the darker aspects of his walk that his employer, Kurt Hollenpege found indispensable. Dorman, Cage Balcor, and the rest of the team made good time. The highway was mostly empty of traffic in the early hours after leaving the NeosGen complex in Redding, California. Their destination was the beacon’s location in nowhere-Nevada.

It was nearly noon and the sun, while hot, was more forgiving where they were than in other regions of the state. The tracker showed that they had arrived at their destination, and each of the team was eager to get out, stretch their legs and deal with the matter.

Park over there, Dorman pointed as they winded their way along the gravel road. Ahead, an oasis of clutter and rusted four-wheel hulks took shape as they approached the entrance to a junkyard.

I have a strong signal, Cage said, holding up the handheld tracker for Dorman to see. It’s definitely in there.

Keep your weapons out of sight, Dorman cautioned. No sense stirring things up unless we have to.

When the black SUV came to a halt, the four men stepped out onto the dusty ground leaving the doors wide open. Spreading out, they stood silently in front of the chain-linked perimeter of the yard and the corrugated-skinned building. A weathered sign with peeling red paint displaying Butch’s Salvage hung precariously above their heads. It flapped quietly against the building in the breeze.

You two, Dorman said, pointing to the men closest to the gate. Take a look. Without a response, the men split up, moving in opposite directions along the fence perimeter while Dorman and Cage walked up to the shack’s door. Cage tried the knob. It was locked.

You want me to—? Not finishing his sentence, he gestured with his raised thick boot.

Dorman thoughtfully looked around, watching his team as they disappeared. With a twitch in his eye, he turned to Cage and nodded in approval.

Hey there. Can I help you, boys?

The mousy voice caught them both by surprise. Cage dropped his foot to the ground and slipped his hand inside his jacket. Both men remained silent, scouring the dilapidated building and adjacent fencing. They were looking for the gaunt face that went with that scrawny voice.

Over here, the voice squeaked as the face it came from came hobbling up to the gate. The man was shirtless, wearing a paint-splotched set of bib overalls. The toes of his boots were both worn through the outer layer of leather, revealing the steel protection beneath. He was well beyond thin, his gaunt frame sunken at the center of his chest. Wild red hair flew out from under the edge of his cap advertising a beer brand long missing from the marketplace. Slung over his shoulder was a well-worn leather sling attached to a Winchester repeater.

Are you Butch? Dorman asked, his eyes momentarily returning to the sign.

Me? Butch?

Dorman smiled as the skinny little man’s words reminded him of a half-naked jungle man trying to talk to a Victorian-bred woman in an African treehouse. His eye twitched again.

Ah, hell no, that ain’t me, the man answered, waving his hand in the air. The name is Donally, but people mostly call me Red. Stopping at the gate, Red reached into his deep pocket for a ring of jingling keys and, after a moment of sorting, pushed one into the lock. Butch, well, he died a few years back. We were partners—business partners, he tittered solemnly. Now it’s just me and Cracker Jacks.

Cracker Jacks?

Red grinned and pointed. I was sitting on that stoop over there one day, taking a little break. I had this box of Cracker Jacks I was munching on, washing it down with a root beer, when all of a sudden this old mutt shows up. He chuckled and shook his head.

I didn’t see him until he was right up in front of me, burying his nose in the box. He was hungry, I guess, maybe a little lonely. I don’t know where he came from, but after that, well—I guess you could say we sort of adopted one another. But don’t worry about him, he chuckled. He’s a little old thing; no junkyard dog if you get my drift. His head turned from side to side. He’s around here somewhere. Never known him to go off on his own for too long.

Got it, no problem with the dog, Dorman said. But do you always go around with a rifle hanging on your shoulder? Dorman turned and looked at a tense Cage, shaking his head and giving him a subtle wave off. Cage dropped his hand from inside his jacket with a questioning look as the gate swung open.

You can never be too careful out here, Red said. "There are some bad ones ‘round here. I mean to tell you, some really bad ones. And it’s not like there is anything valuable here. I mean, it’s a damn junkyard. But that doesn’t stop them. He slipped the keys back into his pocket as they stepped through. Some of these folks are mean as snakes and would put you in the ground just ‘cause they’ve got nothin’ better to do."

Believe me, Red. You have nothing to worry about us.

Yeah, well from the looks of you boys, I don’t think you’ll be giving me any trouble, Red answered, squinting in the sun, what with the men-in-black-look. But I think I’ll keep this close all the same. He patted the slung rifle. Now, you seem to be a long way from home, so what can I do for you?

A car was towed here in the last couple of days. A black BMW SUV that belongs to our organization.

Pushing back on his cap, Red rubbed his forehead and nodded. I know the one you’re talking about. I’m the one who towed it in. Nice vehicle, or I should say that it was. It’s a real mess now. Not much left of it is salvageable.

I’d like to see it, Dorman said.

Sure. I can let you see it, but not much more than that.

"And why is that Red? Dorman’s eyelid jumped a double twitch.

Well, the town doesn’t have any storage or impound space to keep cars like it while they are doing their investigating. You understand we’re not exactly Reno or Vegas around here.

Yes, I do, Dorman said with a half-hearted smile, his patience with Red starting to take a hit.

So when they need to keep a car for a while, they bring it here. I keep it locked up for them. I don’t mind, and I have the room. Besides, it helps me out, you know, a little extra in the coffee can now and then.

I’m sure that’s true. Dorman’s voice grew louder, hoping to convey a message, and by the look on Red’s face, he may have succeeded. But Red, if you don’t mind, I would like to see the car now so we can get on with our business.

Uh, sure thing. He pointed to a metal shed just beyond the rusted remains of an old school bus near the center of the yard. That’s where I keep them until the sheriff and insurance people are done doin’ whatever needs doin’. After that, they usually turn it over to me or the next of kin.

By this time, Dorman’s men had returned from walking the fence. He pointed to the shed. Behind the bus, Dorman said.

Most of the time, it gets turned over to me...hey, uh—there’s more of you guys, Red laughed. The nervous timber in his voice was noticeable as he watched the two men. One carried some sort of device in his hand. Yeah, you should be able to see it, uh, straight ahead. Keep going. Red’s nervousness ran over him, and he was never able to hide it well. Even his sweat began to sweat, and his widened eyes bounced off the four men like billiard balls while the tips of his fingers rapidly tapped the stock of his rifle.

Nervous, Red wanted to get back to his office, but when he turned, he found himself face to face with Dorman, who had walked up behind him. We better get going, Dorman said.

Uh—yeah, we better head over there.

Dorman’s men moved ahead swiftly, much faster than hobblin’ Red was used to or capable of. By the time he and Dorman arrived at the shed, Cage was already at the door holding the rusty padlock in his hand.

I’m coming, Red muttered as he fished the keys out again. Sorry, but my knee’s not so good. Be right there. He stared at the keys as he slowed his already hampered steps toward the shed. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and it took three passes around the ring before he found the right key and pinched it between his white fingertips.

Are you okay, Red? Dorman split an evil grin among the others, shaking his head in disgust. Here. Why don’t you hand me those keys? You’re looking a little peaked. He held out his hand. It is warm today, isn’t it?

Yeah, it is, the yard man replied, dropping the keys into Dorman’s hand.

Tell you what, Dorman said, tossing the keys to Cage, "why don’t you sit right there, on that rock while we take a look. And while you rest, I am going to ask one of my men to show you a map he brought with us. It would be most helpful if you would point to the exact place you found the car.

I can do that, Red said, squatting down on the rock with the Winchester resting on his lap.

Tommy!

Yeah, boss. The big man hurried over.

Show the map to Red, if you would please.

Tommy pulled the map from his pocket and, after unfolding it, handed it to Red along with a pen.

Dorman! Cage called out, holding a little black box with a blinking red light in the air.

Dorman smiled and nodded before turning back to Red. Huddled over the map, Red traced with his finger a path, westward, across hills and valleys, following the black ribbon of the highway as it turned south of where they were. Right here, he pointed. It was about two miles this side of Ruby.

You’re certain? Dorman asked as he walked over.

Absolutely, Red answered.

Mark it.

After marking the location, Red handed both the map and pen back to Tommy, his hand shaking. Looking at the map, Tommy rotated it to the proper orientation, got his bearings, and nodded to Dorman.

Right there, you, uh, you can see where I marked it, Red offered, his finger pointing the way. That’s where I found the car. It had gone off the road into a dry gulch, falling, oh, I don’t know, maybe twenty or thirty feet. I don’t think anyone could have survived that, especially with the fire, he mumbled with his eyes cast down. It’s one of them turns you would call a hairpin. At night, it would be easy to miss. I mean, they’ve got those yellow signs up and everything. But if it was dark enough, and you were driving fast enough, well, it would be too late if you weren’t paying attention."

Dorman looked squarely into the eyes of the anxious little man. I’m sure you’re right, he said, nodding at Cage. Well, thank you, Red. We’ve finished our business and will be leaving now. He pulled his phone from his pocket.

Oh sure, sure, the greatly relieved Red said as he got to his feet, slinging the rifle back over his shoulder. Glad to be of help.

And a great help you were, Dorman said with one final smile as Cage walked up behind the yardman with his pistol pointed at the base of Red’s skull.

Are We Monsters?

Chapter 2

STEPHEN BALLARD NEVER lettered in any sport in college. However, you would never know it as you watched this man who was late for work running hurdles through the building. He did his best to avoid collisions. But he wasn’t above getting physical, pushing and bumping, and stepping on at least one set of toes. And he did so without offering any pardons, apologies, or excuses to those in his way. There was no time.

The inconvenienced, bothered, annoyed, and the injured stood silently as the young man disappeared down the hallway and into a crowded elevator. Most everyone in this section of the complex knew Stephen Ballard. Most importantly, they knew of his relationship with the president of NeosGen, Kurt Hollenpege.

As Mr. Hollenpege’s personal assistant, Stephen was as close to the boss as anyone could get. This relationship ensured that any retaliatory insults by words or hand and finger gestures were kept in check. Those who were quick to protest even the smallest of offenses found their mouths reluctantly shut.

The ride to the top floor was painfully slow. Conversations in the crowded elevator were muted, all eyes on Stephen as he checked his messages. When the doors finally opened, Stephen shot out like a popped champagne cork, his fellow passengers peeling slowly off the walls as they watched him vanish around the corner.

The front door to his office came into view. Amazingly, the hallway was nearly empty. In a matter of seconds, Stephen lunged through the door, bumping one of the two mature ficus trees in the office. It fell over, cracking its thick ceramic pot straight down the middle.

Hurrying to his desk, he gave no thought to the people he’d shoved, the tree he’d knocked over, or the growing pile of over-watered soil seeping onto the carpet. All he cared about was where his panicked eyes were fixed, the slowly closing door to his boss’s office.

Damn it, he said, a little too loudly. He flopped in his chair.

The meeting just started, Sarah said sharply, rising from her desk with a disapproving look. She wanted to throw in a where-the-hell-have-you-been but thought better of it after having worked at Stephen’s side for some time now. Satisfaction would have to come from witnessing the fallout that was sure to come. Swallowing her sarcasm, Sarah took a deep breath and softened her tone. Mr. Hollenpege was asking about you this morning.

Spinning his chair, Stephen turned his back to her. Yeah! Well, I don’t doubt it. He put down the covered latte and morning edition, a religious morning regimen for his boss. He was surprised that they survived.  He rubbed his face vigorously. What did he say—exactly?

Sarah Hammon, a recent hire who previously interned in the same position, had developed a not-so-flattering