“Thanks, Boris,” said Jack, slamming the phone into its cradle. A glance at the alarm clock revealed the time: 7:03 a.m.
Jack stumbled his way to the factory, fueled by the muffin he bought last night (and a rogue candy bar that he didn’t remember buying, but must have, because it was on his bedside table) and the coffee from the lobby.
When he stepped inside, Henry frowned at him. “You’re late.”
Jack shrugged. “By two minutes.”
“Audit’s not off to a good start.”
“Oh, well,” said Jack, too tired to argue. “Where shall we begin?”
By noon, his head pounded, but he’d filled out his paperwork more thoroughly this time and was cautiously optimistic that he hadn’t screwed anything up.
Maybe, just maybe, everything would work out.
His hopes faded when he arrived at the gas station, prepared to spend his last fifty cents on a hot dog that looked and smelled like it had sat under the heat lamp for days, and discovered one dollar and fifty cents stuffed into his pocket.
One dollar and fifty cents. The exact amount of change he’d gotten that first night. He should only have fifty cents left after his last two purchases.
Unless… maybe he had more cash with him than he thought? Perhaps he’d stuffed it into his pocket before the trip and forgotten.
That was the only reasonable explanation.
The hot dog tasted like it had rolled across the parking lot and taken a bath in a puddle of motor oil, but Jack shoveled it down as quickly as he could, relieved to put something in his belly after nothing but coffee and this morning’s muffin.
In the shower, he took a few minutes to appreciate the water as it glided over his skin, the steam that filled the room and fogged the mirror.
He hadn’t relaxed in days. The shower was tiny and slippery, but the water was hot. At this point, he’d take anything he could get.
Everything is fine, he told himself, sliding into bed.
If he just kept telling himself that, maybe it would be.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
The next morning,Jack didn’t answer the phone. Instead, he struck it against the hook each time it rang until he was left in blessed silence.
Early morning light filtered through the curtains and illuminated the satchel on the floor, where he’d left his notes last night.
Heart in his throat, Jack crawled out of bed. Rifled through his bag until he found the forms, neatly clipped together.
He flipped through them and groaned aloud. They were perfectly blank. No blue notes scribbled across the page.
A cursory exploration revealed that he hadn’t somehow lost them. Just in case, he searched his suitcase, and found nothing.
Yesterday’s notes had disappeared. The muffin and candy bar waited on the nightstand.
Jack sat on the bed, heart pounding, tears welling in his eyes. “What the fuck?” he whispered. Panic clawed at him, tore its way from his belly to his throat, which burned as if it had been ripped open.
He began to shake. After a few long minutes, he dialed the front desk.
Boris answered. “Y’ello.”
“Hi,” said Jack slowly. “I’m in room three-oh-nine. Um, I can’t seem to find my date book, and I’m wondering if you could perhaps tell me today’s date?”
“Today?” Boris grumbled. “Fuck if I know. Hang on.” Rustling. The sound of something falling from the desk. A pained grunt. The squeaking wheels of a chair. The staticky sound of the receiver being lifted. “It’s the seventeenth. Tuesday.”
