Myra
I had spent forty-five minutes crafting the perfect "I am a professional who does not have feelings" facade. My hair was pulled into a bun so tight it was practically a facelift, and my blazer was crisp enough to cut glass. I was ready to face the world with the clinical detachment of a high-yield bond.
Then I walked into the kitchen and realized that the world—specifically Mount Tabor—didn't care about my facade.
"The espresso machine is possessed," Tony said by way of greeting. He didn't look at me, but his shoulders were tense as he wrestled with a steam wand that was making a sound like a dying pterodactyl. "It’s been screaming since the power came back. I think the surge fried its ego."
"It’s a machine, Tony. It doesn't have an ego," I said, stepping over a pile of damp towel
