He shook his head, trying not to be such a worrywart, and went inside the office, already late for his own floor time. He flirted with the receptionist, contemplated asking her out, and then caught himself. He had a new goal now: less pussy and more working towards a successful future. He lingered as she leaned forward enough for him to get a great view of the tops of her tits. His newly minted resolve started to slip when his phone buzzed with a text. "Hold that thought," he said to the girl, as he pulled it out of his pocket. He read the screen, tried to process it. 911 – 1750 Whitaker Road. "Call the police," he shouted to the shocked and now disappointed-looking girl. "1750 Whitaker. Sara's in trouble." He was out the back door like a shot, roaring down interstate 94 in minutes. He fixated on the address, hoping he could remember how to get there, and prayed she was okay. He saw her car in the gravel drive and tried to process the scene.
