Making Time

Fred sits in her office, staring at the detail that makes up the surface of her desk, the polish of the hardwood surface almost so bright that the finer characteristics are lost, rubbed and waxed away to that practiced sheen. She listens to nothing for a moment or two, and then for the first time ever she makes a call from her new phone, picking an outside line somehwhere in the min-twenties. It really does seem an excess of lines, and Fred's glad she doesn't have to manage them. The four at Angel Investigations were more than enough to do her in at times.

Reaching the local flower service, Fred waits to be connection to an international one, and then gives one of the few address in her medioum sized, empty black book. She only hopes the results meet the picture in her head. At least there was voice and thought, and not just keys and online. It seems part of the point.

They should be delivered today -- at least England's today

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