Jack grabbed his pen and did the morning crossword in precisely six minutes and thirty-five seconds. When he finished mumbling the last number, he pushed the overworked pen into his front suit pocket and couldn't help but let out a smug smile. He hadn't felt this level of pride since he graduated from Quinnipiac. He wondered if other people could solve a twenty-five word crossword as fast as him. Oh damn, he muttered as he stole a look at his watch, the hour hand a needle tip's away from seven. Swinging open his mini fridge and grabbing a leftover sandwich from yesterday's late dinner, he hastily shoved the sandwich into his bag nudged against his MacBook. In the limited time he hurried past his kitchen counter, sweeping the newspaper to the floor with the finished crossword exposed. Cursing himself for wasting time, he embarked his daily ascent up the hill to the bus station.

The sunrise had just gotten started, spreading apricot preserves over the gray sky. Doves cooed a staccato, robins exercised their wings, crickets yawned and set their bedsheets for sleep. Jack loved these serene mornings, where the surplus of silence allowed for a broader view of the cityscape. The sun to him was once taken for granted, bearing no beauty whatsoever. Right now- he could stay here forever. But he didn't want to waste vacation days. Too meager.

His thoughts were awoken by the high pitched screeching of bus tires on tarmac. Like he had been sleepwalking and he just woke up. When he boarded and exchanged glances with a bus driver who neglected a greeting, the bus immediately drove on without Jack having the time to find a seat. When he finally found one next to a man who took a greater likening to his Blackberry, he watched as the Chicago landscape rolled past him. In peak hour the bus made sudden stops, a young man with a steaming Starbucks cup sitting next to Jack. He tried making small talk, but all collapsed when Jack's stop arrived. If he could only stay.

He pushed through the crowd and entered his office building through a set of revolving doors. Bright white lights scalded his vision, and a clean book smell impeded the usual stench of burning ink. A renovated library sat around the receptionist's desk, with cream-colored wall paint and extravagant rugs decorating the previous boredom-inducing room. A couple students beside the desk lounged up on bean bag chairs getting an early reading done. One held Karl Marx's Communist Manifesto, the other Mein Kampf. Wouldn't it be better if the two argued? As he stood still, he was jerked back into reality by a hard tapping on his right shoulder. As he turned around, he met eyes with a woman in her late fifties with grayed blonde hair, seemingly once beautiful but marred with three failed marriages and the death of her parents. Rosaline Barker. You don't mess with this woman.