It was 3:50 when the horn sounded. A.M.
What the hell was Wilson doing laying on the horn at this hour?
I raced to the front door frazzled, fumbled with the lock, and finally got the damn thing undone. I opened the door and yelled into the darkness like a madman.
“Enough with the horn.”
The complaining started as soon as we sat down to eat. Actually, it started before that, on the fifty-yard walk from the house to the dinner table. Single-file, six feet apart, and masks firmly in place, of course.
“Holy crap is it cold,” our son yelled.
“Why are we eating outside when its twelve degrees?” our daughter asked. That was followed quickly by another inquiry.
“And why is Nana sitting in the inflatable snow globe?”
The anxiety level had been rising for weeks. Thinking you might be the target of a government investigation will often increase the stress you feel.
I texted Terri and asked her if she had a moment. A minute later she stepped into the home office, chipper. And why not, it was the weekend. Good enough reason to be chipper and upbeat, unless of course you think you might be the target of a government investigation.
The meeting took place after the big-box store had closed for the night. They gathered back in the dark, drafty space by the compactor, near the loading dock doors. It was clear from the get-go that tempers were high, feeling were hurt, and answers were needed.
“Someone want to tell me how this even happens?” Twenty-one yelled.