I’d played hooky from work yesterday, but still dreaded going inside Reed Meyers the way a convict dreaded the death penalty. I dragged myself up the sidewalk, swiped my ID card through the reader, and entered the brick building. The department seemed rather quiet for a Thursday morning, but that suited me just fine because I didn’t want to be bothered by anyone who worked here anyway. The reason: I had personal business that needed taking care of. I closed myself off from the rest of the world, kicked my shoes under my desk, dialed Frank’s extension and hoped he was in. He didn’t disappoint me. “Frank Colletti,” he answered. “Hi” was all I said. “So I see you made it in today?” “Yeah, but I didn’t want to,” I admitted. “Your secretary told me you were out yesterday, and I was a little worried.” “I’m fine. Well, not fine, but I’m here.” “You weren’t sick, were you?” “Depends on how you define being sick.” “Meaning?” “Meaning, I’m sick of this job and this place we work for.”
