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bag of Fritos. To her left, a pint of Chunky Monkey with a spoon sticking out of it. A can of Coke was trapped between her flabby legs. The rest of the six pack was in an ice chest on the floor, awaiting its fate. All the curtains in the trailer were drawn, all the windows shut tight, both doors locked. A giant metal cocoon.
    Ricki
ended ten minutes later and BethAnn sighed. It would be exactly four minutes and thirty seconds until Sally started her monologue. She glanced down at the cordless phone and felt a familiar sense of dread. She’d put this off as long as possible. There were no spare minutes left.
    Brian picked up on the second ring. “Hello, Beach Haven Acme, this is Brian Donahue, how can I help you?”
    “Brian…it’s me.”
    She sounded feeble, elderly. An old woman on her deathbed imparting her final thoughts.
    “BethAnn? You sound terrible.”
    The sincerity was still there, she thought, and that was good. She’d held onto this job for almost fourteen months now—a personal record. Most of her other employers caught on pretty quick. But not this guy. He seemed utterly clueless.
    “I feel terrible. I’ve been throwing up, and I’ve had diarrhea, and—”
    “Well, just stay home then. We’ll hold down the fort.”
    Hold down the fort
. What a Brian phrase that was. So gung-ho, so all-American.
    What a schmuck.
    “Thanks, I really appreciate it. And I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be sorry. We don’t have control over these things.”
    “I just feel bad because it’s inventory day. There’s so much work to be done.”
    “Don’t feel bad. Just feel better.”
    Another Brianism; her stomach knotted. She wanted to choke people like this.
    “Thanks. I’ll call tomorrow.”
    “Righto.”
    She turned the phone off and tossed it aside. It landed at the other end of the couch, buttons up. If it rang she’d ignore it; she wasn’t expecting any other calls today.
    She smiled. It was a horrible, demonic smile. She knew who Brian would call to take her place—Jennifer King. Jennifer was the only other person in the store who knew how to use the inventory computer. That damn thing was ancient. Monocolor screen (black with glowing amber characters) and so slow to respond to commands that half the time you wondered if you had entered them correctly. But Jennifer went to the trouble of learning how to use it. Didn’t complain that it was out-of-date or that it was slow. Just sat in the lunchroom in the back, on her own time, and read the manual over and over until she’d mastered it. Another gung-ho schmuck. Her and her nonstop talk about her beloved boyfriend, the hotshot writer and photographer for the
SandPaper
. She was another one who should be choked to death.
    She tried to envision the sinking look on Jennifer’s face when Brian broke the bad news. She knew Jennifer was supposed to meet Mark for lunch today at Forsythe. She knew that because
everyone
knew it. Jennifer was always giving updates; the Mark and Jennifer newsletter. This would shatter those plans. Jennifer would be sad, but she wouldn’t complain. Nope, not her. All-American girls like her never did. She’d just carry on like a trooper and keep the disappointment to herself. But it would be there, and knowing that was good enough for BethAnn Mosley.
    Sally finally came on. Then the Fritos ran out. BethAnn cursed and got up with a groan. She kept her stash in a chest-level cabinet so she wouldn’t have to bend or stretch. It was jammed—potato chips, pretzels, popcorn (all three varieties—plain, cheese, and caramel). This was one of the practical advantages of working in a grocery story. She chose Munchos this time.
    Jerry was next, so it was a good thing she got the new bag when she did.

{ THREE }
    Zaeef kept his eyes closed and his hands folded the entire trip. He thought about many things, but mostly about the paradise that awaited him. What fools these people were. If they only knew. They cherished and clung to their