Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 110809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
A sprawling tent village is set up in the grassy spot in front of the old student union. I pedal faster as a few men loiter around the edges. Somewhere in the maze of canvas and salvaged plywood, a woman is wailing.
Once I reach my building, I hurry inside, bringing my bike with me. The school has gotten lax with just about everything these days. If I left it outside—even with a lock and extra chain—it would be gone by the time I finished in the lab. These days, bikes have become quite the commodity.
“Dr. Clark.” Gene, the custodian, gives me a short wave from down the hallway, a push broom in one hand.
“How’s it going?” I unwrap the scarf from my face, but I don’t take it off. The university barely does upkeep on its buildings anymore, and the heat is particularly iffy in the medical sciences annex.
“Doing all right, I suppose. How’s it going on third?” He glances at the ceiling, the cataracts around his irises turning the dark brown more of a milky shade. “Any breakthroughs?”
I shake my head. “Not yet, but stick around, you’ll be the first to know if I crack it.” I dig around in my backpack and pull out a mask, stuffing it under my scarf and crimping the nose band in place. Then I dig out a small plastic container of chili.
“Keep on doing the Lord’s work up there, learning His secrets. You’ll solve this thing, Doc.” He gives me a nod.
“Will do. Here.” I hand him the container. “Good news is it’s chili, bad news is they put beans in it to stretch it a bit.”
“I’ve got a new appreciation for people who put beans in chili. More protein can’t hurt.” He smiles and takes it. “Now don’t go sneaking me anything if it’s going to get you in trouble, you hear?”
“Don’t worry. It’s all on the up and up.” True, for the most part. What I sneak from the kitchen isn’t enough to be noticed. Not yet, anyway.
“I sure do thank you, Dr. Clark. I sure do.” He shuffles past and leans the broom on the wall. “I’ll go ahead and dig in, if you don’t mind. Lula didn’t lay any eggs for me yesterday, so I’m running on empty.”
“Sure thing. Enjoy it.” I wheel my bike past and hope to avoid coming across anyone else. If they know me, they invariably ask about my work or my sister. I don’t feel like discussing either one right now, so I keep my head down and take the elevator, crossing my fingers it doesn’t get stuck. It happened to Gene last semester, and it took half a day before the fire department showed up to get him out.
When I reach my office, I wedge my bike inside far enough to where I can close the door behind me. It doesn’t leave much room, but I shimmy between the front tire and my bookcase, edge around the corner of my desk, and sit in the office chair that’s seen far too many asses over its lifetime. It gives a harried sigh as it takes my weight, but it doesn’t collapse no matter how badly it might want to.
Flipping on my contraband space heater beneath my desk, I pull off my mask and press my scarf against my face, blowing out my warm breath to feel the momentary heat. I sit that way for a while, at least until my breath doesn’t fog the air any longer. Then I turn on my kettle for a cup of instant coffee (for the longest I refused to stoop to instant coffee levels, but the shortages changed my mind—any port in a storm).
A knock at my door puts me on edge, and I open my top drawer, my fingers searching for the pepper spray as I call, “Who is it?”
“Sledge.”
I close my drawer with more than a little relief. Since the university has been abandoned in parts, we’ve had a problem with vagrants showing up to pillage what’s left. Sometimes that includes harming the people they find inside. Gene is a decent deterrent for my building, but there’s no telling how long that’ll last. I’m assuming he hasn’t seen a paycheck for the last four months just like the rest of us. “Come in.” I pull my mask back on. It’s on autopilot now. Anytime you’re in proximity to another human being outside your usual bubble, you defend yourself even if it’s in the smallest way possible.
Sledge swings the door open and stops it just before it hits my bike. “You know, Georgia, no one’s going to take it from the third-floor hallway.” He steps awkwardly over the back wheel and into the tiny space reserved for guests. I used to have students sitting across from me with tales of dead grandparents in bids for forgiveness for late papers or bad grades. It was a fun game of me hearing them out and then expressing my condolences for the second or third time they lost “Grandma Myra” that semester. But that changed when the illnesses and deaths became all too real. And then the students stopped showing up altogether.