We both looked up to see Mutant Wizards’ chief financial officer at the entrance to the reception area.
“We’ve got a conference call in three minutes.”
Rob ambled off, and I dealt with the stacked-up calls. A sandbox. I’d been on the verge of coming clean. Confessing to Rob that Crouching Buzzard was a practical joke, not an abstruse kata.
Instead, as I whittled down the backlog of phone calls for Mutant Wizards and for the motley collection of therapists with whom we shared office space, I began inventing a new kata, one even more fiendishly difficult and amusing to watch.
Stop that, I told myself, when I realized what I was thinking. I wasn’t here to invent imaginary katas. Or to mind the switchboard. I was supposed to find out what was wrong at Mutant Wizards.
It all started two weeks ago, when Dad and Michael brought me back from the emergency room with my left hand hidden in a mass of bandages the size of my head.
“Wow, what happened?” asked Rob, through a mouthful of Frosted Flakes. He’d come over to Michael’s apartment to feed and walk Spike while the rest of us were at the hospital, and had stayed to empty the pantry.
“Long story,” I said, and disappeared into the bathroom for a little privacy. Michael went to the kitchen to fix me some iced tea, while Dad, a semiretired general practitioner, began telling Rob in excruciating detail exactly what was wrong with my hand and what the doctors at Caerphilly Community Hospital had done to repair it, along with a largely favorable critique of their professional expertise. I sighed, and Michael reached over to pat my good hand.
Yes, I know I said he was in the kitchen and I was in the bathroom. The kitchen of the Cave, as we called Michael’s one-room basement apartment, consisted of a microwave and a hot plate perched atop a mini refrigerator. The bathroom was separated from the kitchen by a curtain I’d hung five minutes after walking in the door on my first visit. The seven-foot ceiling felt claustrophobic to me, so I could only imagine how it affected Michael at six feet four inches. The fact that several of Michael’s colleagues envied him for snagging these princely quarters showed how tight living space was in Caerphilly.
“Actually, I meant how did she injure it?” Rob said. I could tell by his voice that he was turning a little green. Rob fainted at the thought of blood. “What happened, Meg?”
“Like I said, long story.”
“My fault,” Michael said. “She was trying do her blacksmithing in that tiny studio I found for her, and it was just too small. She hit her elbow on a wall while hammering something, and hammered her other hand instead.”
“Too bad,” Rob said.
You have no idea, I thought, staring into the cracked mirror, fingering the bruises and lacerations that covered my face. Michael had forgotten to mention that, along with my hand, I’d also banged the hell out of a structural wall and brought part of the ceiling down on my own head. The studio might have worked for a painter, but it was just too small for a blacksmith. Still, I’d tried to make it work. Tried desperately, because after nearly a year of looking for somewhere for the two of us to live and me to work, the tiny basement apartment and the even tinier converted gardenshed studio were the best we’d found. Apart from being painful and keeping me out of work for weeks, my injury meant that I still hadn’t found a place to work in Caerphilly, and we’d have to go back to square one, with me living several hours away in suburban northern Virginia, seeing Michael only when one or the other of us could get away from work for long enough.
Although obviously I wouldn’t be working for a little while, I thought, staring at the bandage.
“How long till she can do her blacksmithing again?” Rob had asked, as if reading my mind.
“At least two months,” Dad said.
“That’s great!” Rob exclaimed.
“Rob!” Dad and Michael said it in unison, and I stuck my head through the bathroom curtains to glare at him.
“What I meant was, it’s too bad about the hand, but I have a great idea about what she can do in the meantime,” Rob said hastily. “Remember how I was saying that I think there’s something wrong at Mutant Wizards? Maybe Meg could come and pretend to work there and figure out what’s going on.”
“That’s brilliant, Rob!” Dad exclaimed.
“Except for one tiny detail,” I said. “What on earth could I possibly do at a computer company?”
“You can organize us!” Rob said, flinging his arms out with enthusiasm. “You said yourself that you can’t imagine how we’ll ever get moved into our new offices and that we should hire a competent office manager. You’re perfect for it!”