Twelve Hours...

Twelve Hours

By James M. O'Meara, © 2012

From the blind spot...

Anton drummed his fingers on the desktop. Surely, the figures were wrong. He'd have to run them again. But he had, six times already, and they always served up the same ominous data.

The telephone rang. It would be Michael, and he dreaded the call. He let it ring twelve times before picking it up.

"Yes?" he asked, his stomach churning.

"I think I've done it."

He relaxed slightly at the sound of his wife's voice, and then felt a nearly unbearable wave of sadness sweep over him.

"Done what, Mary?"

"Mastered the chicken filo you love so much."

Another wave of emotion rolled over him, savaging him. It was almost unbearable.

"Anton? Are you there, darling?"

"Yes, Mary. Of course."

"What's wrong? You sound so odd."

"Why, nothing." Why, everything. Everything for everybody everywhere. "I'm just fighting with the observatory's computer again."

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