“Right,” Felix says with a grin.
Naomi’s smile turns smug. Mine hides in my mug.
Right, indeed.
Chapter twelve
Naomi
Ping.
The sound slices through the dark, yanking me up out of sleep.
My eyes fly open. My phone on the nightstand is lit, a single, miraculous bar of signal flickering in the corner.
2:14 a.m.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Notifications stack over my lock screen.
Mia, the day before yesterday:Naomi!! Just saw the emergency alert. Please tell me you’re INSIDE and not on the road. Sheriff says the mountain is completely closed. I'm looking into options as soon as they let anyone through, trucks, snowmobiles, anything. Text me when you see this so I know you’re okay, please.
Good, she knows I'm fine.
But then an email banner pops up over it.
Subject:Seattle expansion – MSA review
Hi Naomi, Just a quick check-in ahead of Thursday. Attaching the latest version of the master service agreement for the Seattle flagship. Can you confirm you’ll have time toreview and send any redlines before our stakeholder session? Landlord’s team is eager to lock this in. - Jeremy Hsin
Another one slides in right after.
Subject:Re: Seattle expansion – prep materials
Naomi, Following up on Jeremy’s note. Updated term sheet + landlord rider attached for your review. Please confirm receipt and let us know if there’s anything we should flag before Thursday’s meeting. – Stakeholder Relations
Of course the universe only gives me signal long enough to deliver stress.
I swipe into my mail app and start typing:
Quick update, I’m currently in Lakeview and the area has just been hit with a severe blizzard. County authorities have closed all access roads until further notice. Under the force majeure provisions in our engagement and the standard delay clauses in the MSA, timelines tied to travel may need to be adjusted. I’ll review the attached documents as soon as wifi stabilizes and will propose a revised schedule for the in-person session once I have confirmed reopening of the roads.
I hit send.
The little icon spins.
And spins.
Email send failure.
I try again. Failure.
The single bar of signal blinks out. "No Service" replaces it.
The room feels smaller instantly. Like the walls took one step closer to the bed.
I shove the duvet back and swing my legs over the side. My skin feels too hot, the air too thin.
