Chapter 35The Miraclemaker sat rigidly at the kitchen table, hands folded neatly before him. His ears were alert for any sound; his face was tipped upward, eyes trained steadily on the wall-clock.
The round shell of the clock was of a garish orange plastic, the color of a hunter's blaze-orange cap. An electrical cord ran from the base of the shell and disappeared under the table.
The Miraclemaker hated the clock. He wasn't offended by its color or the loud, constant buzz which emanated from it; its design didn't bother him, either, not even the lemon-yellow cow face grinning incongruously at its center.
He hated the clock simply because it showed him the time. He hated the clock because it reminded him of his miscalculation.
The hands of the clock were shaped like milk bottles. Th
