Sara drew her coat tighter around her lithe frame. The wind roared, the storm that had started last night was unrelenting. She was going to be late for work, again. Her employer had threatened that if it happened one more time, he would terminate her. But she would plead, beg, struggle to make him realize that today wasn't her fault. Her electricity had gone off because of the storm, which meant so had her alarm. The moment she woke up, she was late. In her dash to leave the house, she slipped and dropped her phone in the small pool that had formed outside her door, only to find that her car wouldn't start.
So, here she was, walking in the still-raging storm of the icy wind and rainfall, saturated to the bone, her hair and clothes clinging to her body. Cars passed her by, spraying dirty road water on her. No-one stopped. Why would they? On the best of days, she didn't draw any attention.
The bus stop was simply two blocks away now. She savored the image of being protected on the bus from this harsh weather. Looking up against the squall and to her dismay, she discovered the bus pulling up. Her mind focused on one word, Run. Fighting the stiffness in her joints, she forced herself into a sprint. But to no avail. By the time she arrived at the stop, it had taken off. Cursing everything around her, she started trudging to work. Another eight blocks.
By the time Sara walked into the insurance building, her teeth were chattering from the bitter cold. Janet, the secretary, glanced up aghast, "Sara, are you okay? What happened to you? You look like a drenched rat, did you walk all the way here?"
Sara liked Janet. Janet was pleasant, friendly, and extremely chatty, which suited her because she was a shy individual.
"James has been fuming around the office." Janet continued. "He stated if you showed up I was to inform you that he needs to meet with you as soon as possible." Pity flashed across her face.
Sara let out a deep groan. Her shoes left wet muddy marks on the marble as she navigated the floor to his room. She knocked.
"Come in, Sara." James' commanding voice reverberated through the door. He must have heard Janet fussing over me. Sara twisted the ornate knob and nudged open the big door. James was sitting in his Italian leather armchair with his back to her. She walked in and stood in front of his mahogany desk. "Sara, do you remember the conversation we had last time you were late?"
She cringed inside. "Yes, Sir." she responded, as confidently as she could muster.
"Did you like this job?"
She detected the use of the past tense word 'did', but decided her best choice was to overlook it. "It's a good job, I like to very much." Water dripped off of her onto his expensive rug.
"I'm afraid I have to let you go. I require someone I can rely on."
Sara felt an objection building in her throat but decided not to voice it. Earlier this morning she was ready to fight for her place, but the events of the day had suppressed her will to argue. She simply hung her head.
"Close the door on the way out. Janet will gather up your things, you can pick them up tomorrow. And ask her to tidy up the mess you've created on my floors." He spoke nonchalantly. He never once turned around.
Sara turned and left, quietly closing the door behind her. Janet took one glance at her face and perceived right away. "Oh Sara, I'm very sorry." Janet already had a bucket and mop in hand, ready to clear up the last trace of her presence there. Sara managed to give her a weak grin and headed back out into the shower.
Sara started heading home, not knowing what else to do. Hot tears cascaded down her face, mingling with the cool rainwater. What am I going to do now? She could sense panic welling up inside of her. Without work I can't pay my bills, I can't pay my rent. I don't have savings. I will be destitute in no time.
Her mind quieted for a few moments before resuming the search for a solution. I suppose I could go back home to my parents, she immediately shook her head in frustration. They would gloat that they were correct all along. New York City was no place for a young woman from a small mid-western town. That I was unwise and selfish to leave them. No! I won't go home. I'll just have to work something out. She decided to relieve her mind of the strain by looking for something else to occupy it.
She spotted a man slowly walking about a half-block ahead of her. His coat collar was turned up, struggling to block the precipitation from penetrating. As he rounded the next corner, she noted he dropped an object. Sara called out, but he must not have heard her in the commotion of the rain.
Reaching the corner, she bent down to retrieve what the man had dropped. When she plucked it up, she saw it was a little black book. She peered down the road he disappeared at, but he was truly gone. She tucked the little black notebook into her inside coat pocket, in the hopes it would stay drier that way.
She was soaked again by the time she made it home. She peeled off her wet clothes, put on a robe, and went into her tiny kitchen to make some fresh cinnamon tea. While the water was heating, she went and retrieved the book from her coat and carefully set it on the table. Maybe it contained the owner's information, so she could return it. Either way, she hated the thought of invading their privacy. She drummed her fingers absent-mindedly on the table a few times and then picked it up.
It was ancient-looking, with spider cracks all over it. There was writing on the cover she couldn't make out. She carefully turned the pages, afraid they would crumble in her grip. She speculated how old this volume was. It had beautifully illustrated pages of blossoms, creatures, and designs. As she was turning the pages, two weathered ten-thousand-dollar bills drifted onto the table. She gawked in disbelief at them for who knows how long.
The increasing shrillness of her tea kettle whistling lured her back to reality. She shut the stove off, made her drink, and sat back down at the table. She was hesitant to touch the bills lying there. They can't be authentic, the Federal Reserve doesn't print ten thousand dollar bills anymore, do they? Did they ever? But if they are real... they would be worth a load more than twenty thousand. She gently picked one up, wanting them, requiring them. I should maybe try to locate the owner tomorrow, but the desire for that wealth was expanding like a fire inside her.
"It's not like I stole it." She reasoned aloud. "I just... discovered it, that's different." With her mind formed Sara stashed the bills in her purse, she would figure out what to do with them tomorrow. She shoved the book on her bookshelf.
Satisfied with her decision, she sipped her tea and turned on the television. I wouldn’t be able to find him in New York City, anyway. "Maybe something good is finally happening to me." With the matter resolved, she had established the outcome.
Outside her house, Ethan paused, seemingly oblivious to the downpour. At least it was helping him to discreetly stay concealed. He had pursued her, just to make sure she took the little black book home. Would she keep it? He had, so he was positive she would as well. He had finally passed it along. Maybe one day she would figure out what the book said? Maybe even figure out how to pass it on? But for now, the 'gift' was all hers.
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