When Gibson got home, he couldn’t find his house keys anywhere and a quick look in the kitchen revealed that it had all but been gutted like an old woman for firewood. He wondered idly how much it was worth to have someone come over, clean it up and then go to work on his apartment before they left – or even if he could call anyone now without looking crazy as well as guilty. He found them on top of the fridge where he’d left them when leaving work at two in the morning last night, which seemed like only yesterday. The clock read ten past six, and although he hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep the previous night he felt more rested than he had in some time. Not enough sleep and not enough energy, maybe, but he could feel his headache getting better already. He knew that it would come back tomorrow after he ate something and slept some more.For dinner, though, he decided to just microwave leftover chicken nuggets and salad from one of the boxes that

Gibson sighed and adjusted his tie. He’d been in a foul mood all day since that stupid letter from the Department of State arrived yesterday, but no one would have thought it to look at him now, standing next to his desk with a frown on his face. His secretary sat down at the other end of her mahogany desk, nervously fiddling with her pen as she stared at her boss’s closed office door. “Mr. Gibbs, there’s a man outside your office. Would you like me to ask him if he can come back later?” The secretary whispered, almost inaudibly. She was a petite thing, barely five feet tall and very pretty, even when she looked like this. ‘Not so bad’ had been what everyone used to say about her when they’d first met her. Now though, after months of working for Gibbs… well, nobody really knew what was going on with her. Gibbs nodded and said, “Yes please,” before taking the chair next to his secretary's desk. “I don’t know how long he will take. I should probably let him know.” “Okay. Uh… do you n

Gibson’s office is an odd mix of modern and old fashioned. It’s spacious and clean but the furniture was built by someone more than a decade ago. Even with the large windows allowing sunlight in he finds it hard to get his work done, which is precisely why he prefers his room downstairs on the ground floor. This time the sun doesn’t come through the glass like a spotlight. There’s no one there for him to see when he works at night so he can just do what he wants without being bothered. Today, however, something has caught his eye as he walks past. He stops at his desk and picks up a picture frame sitting next to one of his files that contains a black and white photograph of a teenage girl, probably about twelve years old, with light brown hair pulled back into two pigtails. She seems pretty normal looking except for her bright eyes and a slight smile that doesn’t quite reach them. Her name is Hannah and she’s only four. A little too young to be out in public without adult supervision,

Whenever Gibson returned from work , he always went straight to the bathroom, because even though it didn’t feel like he had anything really pressing to do or important to do, a couple hours spent alone in there was usually an hour of self pity before he left for the evening. So he would sit on the cold tiles with his head in hands for a while and count backwards from ten thousand. He would try to think about all of the terrible things that could have happened to him today. He would start off by thinking how good his day had been, how he hadn’t seen anyone he knew from work, but then he remembered the look of horror on his wife’s face when he told her about his job, the way she’d stared at him like she wanted to kill him, and just couldn’t find any words in her mouth…And so on and so forth. The cycle repeated itself over and over, until he felt sick enough to leave his room and go take a shower. That made everything a bit less bleak. He never stayed long enough to see what time it wa

When Gibson returned home from work with the latest in the pile of manuscripts he’d written in his free time for the past year, he was surprised to see the sun still up even though it was well past eight o'clock in the morning. It was late for him. He’d been working all night, and although it wasn't particularly exhausting or physically draining on the average, he could barely keep his eyes open any more. And after he had a long day at work... Well, you know. He hadn't slept much this week. Even the fact that he was finally getting some sleep after such an eventful week made him feel exhausted. He dropped his briefcase down by the couch and collapsed into it with a yawn, rubbing his eyes blearily as he sat there, waiting for his computer to boot up. The screen lit up and began its usual startup sequence, but after several seconds nothing happened other than the usual static. Gibson stared at the display blankly, confused. The last thing he remembered was plugging it in before heading