Someone tell Mac to leave me alone. Any sex in this story, if there winds up being any sex in this story, is four dozen pages and weeks (fictional time) in the future. If he wants to get there, the best thing he can do is to talk about the case, so I can get that stuff written.

I have no interest, no interest, in Mac's opinion of the erotic possibilities of small closets. They're supposed to be eavesdropping on the bad guys, not fondling each other.

Sheesh.

Victor continues to sulk and I still don't know what's wrong with him. He always wants to be coaxed.

No, of course I shouldn't be thinking of this stuff while I'm at work.* And I assure you, if I had either internet or phone service, I'd be working. But I don't. I can't call anyone. No one can call me. I can't send or receive e-mails.

I don't know why I'm still at the office...it's not like I'm decorative to have around.

Early the next day.... Well, we got it all fixed. At 5:30 yesterday afternoon. That was a waste of a day.

* And yet, I can't help wondering if maybe I'm not writing the wrong story, you know?