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that he really pondered the matter, though, he had been doing a marvelous job piling metaphorical straw on his manager’s back for years. Putting just one more piece on top right now was, in hindsight, a really shitty idea.
    He tried some more of plan A. “You’re right,” he said, finally looking up. “You absolutely are. And I’m sorry.”
    Melissa rolled over that one, too. “You say that, but what have you done about it? It drives me crazy when you do this. And yet, for some reason, I always end up forgiving you. Why, I don’t know. Maybe because beyond this, everyone here loves you.” She sighed, brushing her fingers through her wheat-colored hair. “Look, I’m not saying you can’t leave the Institute, Charlie—believe me, I’m not. This isn’t some prison. I can understand needing time away from this place. I just need to know where you are in case we needyou. It’s part of the job. Why is that so hard for you to do? Why can’t you do that?”
    The grimace was flush on Charlie’s face before he could do anything about it. He tried to hide it, but he was willing to bet Melissa saw it.
    Why can’t you do that? That was the real question, wasn’t it? All the other where were you s and what were you doing s all boiled down to that fundamental why . So it had been with most of his former managers—the fairly recent ones, anyway—and so it was now.
    Why, Charlie Dawson, are you continually breaking the rules? Why are you being such an asshole?
    The answer was simple enough, really: because otherwise he’d have to tell them the truth.
    Charlie was primed to serve Melissa another heap of bullshit-laden vagaries when the office door swung open and a short, slightly round man with an armful of papers ambled in. Dirkley Dupine made it halfway across the room before he noticed that something seemed amiss between Mr. Dawson and Ms. Johnson. His eyes darted back and forth between the pair as if he were unsure which one was going to attack him first.
    He cleared his throat. “Umm . . . should I come back?”
    There was an exchange of glances between Charlie and Melissa—an unspoken assertion on her part that the current discussion was merely being postponed—before she slid over on the couch, patting the seat next to her. “No, not at all. We were just going over a few last-minute things.”
    â€œOh, perfect. I have a few of my own,” he said, still a bit leery of the atmosphere as he meandered over to the newly opened space next to Melissa. He plopped down next to her, shooting her a quick, admiring glance as he settled in.
    Dirkley was the third and final piece of Charlie’s team. AllFerrymen worked on teams of three: the Ferryman (which, despite its gender implications, was actually a neutral term that could mean male or female; the -man ending was an anachronistic throwback and/or an exercise in brand management, depending on who you listened to), the manager, and the navigator. In addition to his portly build, Charlie’s navigator was balding slightly, his nondescript brown hair fading away in patches. Thankfully, it would never get worse than that because, as with all members of the Ferryman Institute, Dirkley didn’t age. Charlie often wondered if being stuck in a perpetual state of almost balding was Dirkley’s own little curse. Then again, he also wouldn’t be surprised if Dirkley never even noticed. The man’s wardrobe seemed to suggest that personal appearance was rarely a foremost concern of his.
    â€œSo,” Charlie said, grateful for the chance to change the topic, “how are we looking for tonight?”
    Dirkley quickly riffled through some of the papers he was holding. “Not too bad. Believe it or not, the last report I received from the front desk suggested a quiet, if ordinary, Sunday night. I’m a little unsure as to its