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zooming to the
    surface. He hadn't felt this alive since he was carried off the football field on the shoulders of his teammates for the last time.
    He wanted this win so badly, he could taste her—er, it.
    The rush of adrenaline continued to feed his brain, which churned until the light of early dawn seeped through the windows.
    Jack discarded idea after idea, but he refused to give up hope that something fantastic would occur to him. Around seven, and
    with little to show for his sleepless night, Jack heard a scratching sound on the front door. He went to investigate, stapler in
    hand for lack of a better weapon. To his abject consternation, Tuesday opened the door and marched inside, flipping on lights
    as she went. She wore an attractive flowered skirt and a modest blouse. "Morning," she sang.
    "How'd you get in?" he demanded.
    She held up a Tremont's department store credit card, of all things. "I jiggled the lock—this is no Fort Knox, sonny. You're
    here early."
    "I didn't leave," he said, scowling. "And I thought I told you not to come back."
    "You were having a bad day," she said cheerfully. "So I thought I'd give you another chance." She leaned toward him and
    grimaced. "Oooh, you don't look so good."
    "I know."
    "Did you finish the presentation?"
    "Yes."
    "Is it good?"
    "No."
    She sighed, a sorrowful noise. "Well, you'll have to wow them with charm, I suppose." She squinted, angling her head.
    "What were you planning to wear?"
    He looked down at his disheveled beach clothes and shrugged. "I hadn't thought about it, but I'm sure I can rustle up a sport
    coat."
    Tuesday grunted and picked up the phone. "What are you, about a forty-four long?"
    He shrugged again, then nodded. "As best as I can remember."
    She looked him up and down. "Six-three?"
    Again, he nodded.
    "Size twelve shoe?"
    "Thirteen if I can get them. Why?"
    Tuesday waved her hand in a shooing motion. "Go take a shower and shave that hairy face. Hurry, and yell for me when
    you're finished."
    Jack wasn't sure if he was simply too tired to argue, or just glad to have someone tell him what to do. The Tremont's account
    was lost now anyway—he would merely go through the motions for Derek's sake.
    He retreated to the bathroom in the back, grateful for the shower the landlord had thought to build. Shaving had never been a
    favorite chore, and it took some time to clear the dark scruff from his jaw. He checked in the cabinet on the wall, and sure
    enough, Derek had left a couple pairs of underwear, along with a pair of faded jeans and a few T-shirts. Derek was more thick-
    bodied than he, but the underwear would work. Jack had barely snapped the waistband in place when an impatient knock
    sounded at the door.
    "You through in there?"
    "Give me a second," he called, then wrapped a towel around his waist before opening the door.
    Tuesday strode in, carrying a comb and a pair of scissors. "Oh, no," Jack said, shaking his head. "You're not cutting my hair."
    "Oh, yes," she said, motioning for him to sit on the commode lid. "That wooliness has to come off. Come on, now, don't
    argue."
    He stubbornly crossed his arms and remained standing. She pointed the scissors at him. "Don't make me climb up there. Do
    you want to blow this chance completely?"
    Jack sighed and shook his head.
    "Then sit."
    He sat. And she cut. And cut and cut and cut.
    Cringing at the mounds of dark hair accumulating on the floor around him, Jack pleaded, "Gee, at least leave me enough to
    comb."
    She stepped back, made a few final snips, then nodded and whipped off the towel protecting his shoulders. "There, you look
    human again." Tuesday exited the bathroom with purpose.
    Half afraid to look in the mirror, Jack did so one eye at a time. Damn. He pursed his mouth and lifted a hand to his sheared
    head. It was short, but it didn't look half bad. He turned sideways and ran a hand over the back of his neck.
    "Long time, no see," he murmured. He leaned over the sink and wet his short hair, then