80. I'm tired of this now!

The next morning, I find a message on my phone.

Gerald: Another shooting. Patty Morrison from Sales, strawberry blond with a newborn. Intensive care. Is critical. Police still got nothing.

Like a bucket of water had been splashed on it, the ambient noise surrounding the cabin and the nice, soft warmth of the early sun vanishes. The food in my mouth, a piece of bacon and cheese omelet, tastes like cardboard. I remember Patty Morrison. She was as perky as she looked, smiling all the time, and one of the best people in sales. She’d recently come back to work after her maternity leave, and whenever I strolled through the Sales offices, I could see her cubicle decorated with pictures of her baby, a pudgy thing with a tuft of blond hair on his otherwise bald head, and Patty holding him, beaming like the sun.

Patty Morrison. I may have exchanged only a couple of sentences with her during my time in the company.

Gerald felt the need to say it was critical, even after saying that she was in i
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