Twenty-Seven
I NEVER MAKE IT BACK to the community dinner. I become so consumed with figuring out if my gut feeling is right that I don’t notice how much time has passed. Since no one comes to hunt me down, I assume everyone left there took care of anyone else who showed up, along with the necessary clean up.
By the time Helen wakes up from her nap in the guest room, I’m positive I’m right. Now, all I have to do is tell her.
“Is the lunch over already?” Helen yawns as she stands in the doorway to my office.
“Huh? Oh, probably. What time is it?” I ask, looking up from the papers scattered on my desk.
“About 3 p.m. What are you doing?” she asks, a quizzical look on her face.
I lean back in my chair and toss my pen on my desk. “You’re not going to believe this,” I say, “but I think I’ve
