J ames

Feels like I’ve lived out five or six different days, by the time Diana drops me off at work. Threw up in the shower getting ready, and Percy left a pee-puddle by the door, spiteful hound that he is. Couldn’t find a mop; ended up using an old shirt. And the tea situation was a no-go—no honey or brown sugar either. But a tall glass of water went down nice, and a handful of crackers had me feeling almost human again .

Hell, I felt almost confident, piling back into that Uber in my nattiest suit. Figured I’d make Diana my girlfriend by the Thorold Tunnel, or at least set up a first date. But she’d cranked the heat to warm-hug levels, and I instantly fell back asleep. Think I was snoring, too. Snorted myself awake when she pulled up at Dovecote .

Still, she did take my number. Wouldn’t give me hers, but my passenger rating went up after the ride, so I know she gave me a five. I’m feeling pretty good—on that front, anyway .

On the work front, well, that’s another kettle of fish .

Sean Nasmith’s in my office when I walk in. Not just in it, but inhabiting it: checking his e-mail on my computer, feet on my desk, chair tilted way back—and he’s adjusted it. The height, the armrests, probably the lumbar support—took me forever to get that right. Fucker .

“Nasmith.”

“Dr. Ashby.” He’s got this way of talking where every word drips off his tongue like oil, thick and globby. Can’t think of much I hate more. My investors snuck him in as an efficiency consultant, bumped him up to director, and now—Now he’s chief of something. He’s got it into his head that makes him my boss, when he doesn’t even understand what we do here, wouldn’t know a tumor from a tortoise .

I breathe deep, reining in my irritation. “Something I can help you with ?”

He sits up in my chair, making it creak. Me, I’m stuck hovering by my own trashcan. I think he moved it there, knowing exactly where I’d have to stand, to meet his eyes past the monitor. “It’s almost noon .”

Yeah—which is why I haven’t got time for this shit .

I have actual work to do, work I feel genuinely bad about missing, and he’s got to make a big production of...of whatever he’s about to do. Dressing me down, I guess .

I glance at my watch. “Eleven thirty-two .”

“Expected you at eight .”

Yeah, well, I expected a reptile-free office. “Got held up. Won’t happen again .”

Nasmith presses his lips into a thin, unfriendly line. “That’s the thing,” he says. “Your credit statement says you weren’t just held up.” There’s a fresh printout on my blotter. He taps it with one meaty finger. “In fact—in fact, it tells quite a sordid tale—a tale, I might add, that went over like a lead balloon with the board .”

I eye up his feet. If I just ducked past them, I could grab my tablet and go. What’s he going to do—stop me ?

“Well?”

Oh—he expects a response? “Tom told me — “

“Ah, yes—Mr. Williams. I hope you offered him your sincerest thanks, because if it hadn’t been for his vote of confidence, and his assurance you’ve resolved to turn over a new leaf, this would’ve been the last straw .”

“Now, see here — “

“And let me be clear: You are, as of this moment, out of grace. One more disaster—stick so much as a toenail over the line, you’ll be out that door faster than you can say ‘golden parachute’.” He fixes me with a long, considering look. “Frankly, you could save us all the headache, walk away now. We both know it’s coming—why draw out the agony ?”

I open my mouth to protest—to scream, to rail, yak my feelings all over him. Doesn’t he know this is mine?— the product of my blood, my sweat, my everything? And it doesn’t end with me. There’s the lives that won’t be saved if I don’t get to finish what I started. The patents that’ll spend years in limbo, unused, worthless .

But he wants me to freak out. He’s practically daring me to blow my top, preferably in a manner just undignified enough to violate my contract .

I look him straight in the eye. “Understood .”

His palpable disappointment isn’t much comfort. And it doesn’t last long. He gives me a nice long speech anyway, and to add insult to injury, lets me know Dr. Wells is doing my hospital rounds. I’m not to see patients till I smell, as he puts it, less like a dead possum in a distillery .

Fuck’s sake—I don’t smell that bad! I showered! A quick pit-check, once he’s gone, tells me I’ve definitely got a touch of the whisky-pores, but no eau de roadkill . Fuck that guy. Fuck this day. And honestly, when I get right down to it...fuck me .

I could sling blame on a lot of people for this, a lot of circumstances, but it wasn’t anyone else taking those drinks. No one but me reached into my wallet and pulled out the one credit card I shouldn’t have touched. And that misplaced Sunday?—all on me .

Maybe Diana was right about me being on something worse than booze. I’ve never lost time before. Always been able to look back on the night before and watch that sweet, hazy blur go by—drinks here, dancing there, something dirty in the back of a limo. But Saturday night, all of Sunday...I got the smell of bleach, a vague sense of wanting to drink champagne on the AeroCar, and...that’s it .

I collapse into my chair, only to bounce back up like a jumping bean. I whirl, horrified, and there it is: a damp crescent of ass sweat darkening my seat. And he did fuck with my lumbar support! I brush furiously at my pants .

“Fucking Nasmith ! ”

I’m shaking. Want to say it’s all rage, but I’ve broken out in a cold sweat, and my palms are tingling. “Ugh ....”

Tom was right. This is a problem—I’m a problem. Or I have a problem. Something’s got to change, and fast. I know myself: next Friday’ll roll around, and I’ll walk into that big empty house, sack out on the couch with its depressing plastic cover. Percy’ll hop up with me. I’ll shove him off a couple of times, ‘cause dogs on the couch don’t fly...And then I’ll be drunk. And I’ll be somewhere, with someone, dreaming that whiskey dream ....

Shit. Maybe I have lost time before: smaller chunks, so I’d hardly notice, but ....

There was that time last summer when Percy got loose, dug up Professor Whatzisname’s prizewinning English garden. Door was wide open when I got home. Gate, too .

And that other time, with the pool party—took days to get everyone to leave .

I push my chair to one side and stand at the computer. No time to think about this—not now. I’ll come back to it later, when there’s something I can do about it. For now, my cramping calves and throbbing head can keep me awake while I get some work done .

Work. Yeah. That’d be good .

Just need to focus .

And I do focus: on the same page of figures for what feels like days, while a lurid vision of giant lysosomes and exploding cancer cells plays out behind my eyes .

I give up .

I lock my office door, flop my ass on the couch, and sleep like the dead .

I wake up to a dark room, and my phone vibrating in my pocket. That must be what roused me. My eyes still feel heavy—reckon I could dream the next five hours away, if I resubmerged right now. But if I sleep all day, I’ll be up all night, and tomorrow’ll be hell on earth. Plus, I hate being awake when the rest of the world’s sleeping. Two in the morning till dawn—that’s lonesome time. Even Facebook’s a dead zone: feels like everyone in the English-speaking world is asleep or at work. There’s a gap—a great social gap. Someone should fix that .

I fish out my phone. There’s a text message, sender unknown. I swipe it open .

Hi! :-) It’s Diana, your Uber driver from this morning! Checking in to see if you’re OK !

A second message pops up while I’m reading: Hit me up if you need a ride home !

Well, this is interesting. She could just be fishing for business...But the ride offer was the afterthought, not the inquiry after my health. I go to add her to my contacts as Hot Uber Ginger, then remember I’m meant to be acting like less of a child. I go for Diana (Uber) , instead— much more dignified .

Could use a ride. I pop open the app, stare at it stupidly. How do I request u ?

You don’t .

Rude! I’m about to shoot back a WTF? when she cuts me off .

I mean, Uber doesn’t let you request a driver. You get who you get .

But I’m off the clock . ;-)

Thought I’d see if you needed a ride...you’re semi-on my way .

Now, that’s interesting. Yeah? Where u headed ?

Fenwick. You in ?

That is pretty close. I treat myself to a five-second fantasy where she takes me to her place instead of mine, and we sail through that two-till-dawn social gap together, cuddled up like two kittens in a basket. She doesn’t seem like the type who’d indulge me that far, but I bet I can wheedle a dinner out of her—or dessert, if she’s already eaten .

Yeah, I’m in .

Great. Pick you up in 5 !

I run a comb through my hair on my way through the foyer. Nasmith’s still lurking around. I can see his car through the picture window, that stupid gold Lexus. Who the hell gets a gold Lexus? It’s like a mom car, but a douchebag car, all in one—make up your mind! The idea of keying it flits through my mind, but Diana’s already pulling up, and...Well, maybe later. It’d be too obvious if I did it today. I’ll wait till next week—give him time to piss off enough people to create a suspect pool .

I flop into the shotgun seat this time. Diana’s car is nice and cozy, with a faint buttered-popcorn smell. Didn’t notice that before, but I like it. Makes me hungry .

Yeah. She can take me to dinner. I scooch a little closer, and prepare to dial up the charm .