6:08. Wake up. Blue striped satin pajamas pants swish across the bedroom carpet. Sip water. Pop pills. Drink water. Five minutes to go.
6:12. Pull shades in kitchen. Pointlessly lower toast. Scratch at morning scruff. Observe orange cat across neighboring roof through window, preening loose fur on aerial. Answer phone.
"You're up already," she said. It wasn't a question, but a statement of disbelief.
"Couldn't sleep," I lied. I had been expecting this call ever since my meeting with Tim last Wednesday.
"I can sympathize," she said, then skipped to the point. "We've got a problem. Jack's been down in the lab for about forty minutes trying to figure it out, but we're not getting anywhere."
I asked the questions she would expect, already guessing at our situation.
"We need you here, Peter."
6:58. Exit and lock door.
"Out early this morning, Peter?" The gray-haired woman was curiously perched in her doorway, bent over her walker and holding two glass bottles of milk in a red plastic caddy. She seemed to be wearing five layers of nightgown, bathrobe, and who knows what other sleeping clothes that might allow an old woman to hide her dignity.
"Yes, Mrs. Wilkins. I've been called to the office." She was a nosey old bint, but I humored her because her preoccupation fed my alibi. "I might not be back until much later today, I'm afraid."
"Peter, you work too hard. My husband worked too hard and you see what that got him. You should slow down. Take some time and find yourself a girl."
Ever since the prior tenant moved out of Mrs. Wilkins' place two years ago, I've had the luxury of parking in the apartment garage. And since my vehicle was no longer subject to the visibility of curbside parking, I decided to spend a little on an upgrade from the four-banger I had been plowing around on company cash.
