arms hanging lazily at his sides, and the huge amount of space he covers with each step.
She touches her forehead, feeling the heat in her fingers, thinking that people reveal so much about themselves just by sauntering up the road or down to the store. Not hard, for instance, to notice Terryâs indecisiveness. Or Kentâs boldness. What does she give away, she wonders? Is fear there every time her heels strike the pavement? Worry, in her bowed head? Regret, in the way her eyes stay on the space in front of her feet?
In her mindâs eye, she sees Kentâs other walk. Most people just have the one, but not him. This one is slower, deliberate, like a cat about to pounce. A bend in each elbow and the furrowed brows and the chin pointed downward.
âEmily?â
She looks up. Terryâs standing in front of her. âOh.â
Heâs holding out a bottle of Evian. âYou okay?â
She nods, embarrassed that she missed hearing his footsteps.
He hands the water over. âBest to keep hydrated if youâre sick.â
As she makes her way through the âEmployee Onlyâ door, she hears him say, â
âTake lots of breaks.â And, âThereâs a sweater on the chair in my office if you find it chilly.â
She passes through the cluttered back room, narrowly avoids banging her shin against a pail of dirty water sitting in the middle of the floor. Before continuing on, she puts her Evian on the floor between her feet and then searches her pocket for one of the packages of Halls. Rips it open and pops one into her mouth. It tastes like cough syrup. She lets the lozenge slip beneath her tongue before picking up her water and starting down the stairs.
* * *
SHE PICKS UP THE NEARLY FILLED-OUT INVENTORY LIST, bringing it close to her face. Notices that the five sheâd marked in the box across from the Carnation Milk looks more like a squiggle. The seven, across from the Chef Boyardee, is even worse, as if a Parkinsonâs sufferer wrote it. There are other numbers she canât make out at all. Is that a nine beside the Kraft Dinner, or a four?
Putting the list aside, she clasps her hands together in order to stop them from trembling. Tries to slow her breathing. Shoots a look towards the stairs, half expecting to see Kent walking down them.
Sheâs just swallowed the last of her first package of Halls, her throat numb now instead of sore. The three Tylenol she took earlier are making her feel light-headed, like sheâs floating a few inches off the floor. The coolness of the basement, she thinks, is keeping her fever in check.
Again her eyes go to the stairs â âStop it,â she says to herself. âJust stop it.â
She stands up, starts walking towards Terryâs office. Heâs left his door wide open, as usual. Itâs dark inside, the air a mixture of burnt coffee and black licorice. Near his desk, she fumbles about for the lamp switch. At last she finds it. The light casts an eerie glow against the far wall.
She walks around his desk and, before taking a seat in Terryâs swivel chair, drapes his knitted sweater over her shoulders. Thereâs a lever on the side of the chair that adjusts its height, reclines it either forward or backward. He prefers to sit forward and high up.
Not a picture on his desk. No mother or father, no siblings, no girlfriend, not even a dog or a cat. Pries into her business all he wants, Terry does, but doesnât say a word about his own family life. All she knows is he was born in Corner Brook, and that his parents divorced when he was still a youngster, his father off with some young thing down in Florida somewhere, his mother living alone in the house where he was raised.
He moved here not even five years ago. People leave , they donât come, sheâd thought back then when heâd waved to her from the front window of the old dance hall. Had it renovated in a few months, then changed
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