"Attention shoppers. Your Discount store will be closing in ten minutes. Please take your final purchases to the front checkouts, where our cashiers will be happy to serve you. Thank you, and have a Merry Christmas."

I shuddered as I made the announcement over the intercom. My cashiers were at their registers, ready for the impending stampede. These last ten minutes were always their most energetic moments of the year. Once they cleared out their final customers, they could count down their tills and go home for the one day they were all guaranteed off with their families.

Sure enough, I began to hear crashing carts and customers muttering as they approached the front. A few brazen people began asking for price checks, and the intercom interrupted "Frosty the Snowman" at least seven times for customer assistance in toys.

It was the ultimate deadline. Nobody ever seemed to realize that yes, stores closed early on Christmas Eve, and no, they would not be open on Christmas Day. Nor did they get the hint that the holiday was approaching when lights first started popping up in houses in October, and all the local radio stations started to play "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" in early November.

The final customers of the hour were invariably men, shopping for their wives or children. One cashier had told me that one man had asked her what size bra she wore, because his wife appeared to be the same size.

Twenty minutes later, we still had lines. I had made the "Our registers are closing in five minutes" announcement three times already. I thought of my children at home, waiting for Mommy to come read them "Twas the Night Before Christmas" and tried very hard not to let my impatience show when one of my cashiers asked for a price check on something. I hissed at her to make a price up, because at this point, I didn't care.

Forty-five minutes after my first announcement, I let out a sigh of relief. The last customer was paying his cashier, and the other cashiers had their drawers counted for the evening. I began to run my evening report, when a girl from toys grabbed my sleeve and gave it a sharp tug, and pointed.

I turned around with a feeling of dread. There, with a shopping cart filled to the absolute brim, was a steel-haired old lady, stooped over the candy display, reading nutrition labels on a Kit-Kat and comparing it to a Snickers.

"Ma'am," I said gently, "We're closed."

She shook her head at me. "Oh, no, sweetie. You're not closed. See, there's a cashier right there."

My last cashier looked up and blanched. The woman's cart was filled with all sorts of tiny items. There had to be at least 200 things in that cart, and many looked like the sort that had to be wrapped and sacked individually.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," I said, trying hard not to let my frustration show. "We made the announcement almost an hour ago."

"Oh, that," the lady said, with a wave of her hand. "Stores do that all the time to get people moving up front. You made seven announcements saying you were closing in five minutes."

I clenched my teeth. Whoever created the stereotype that little old ladies were sweet never met this one.

"We closed our doors at six," I struggled to say in an even tone.

"If this were a restaurant, would you kick out your customers before they were done eating?" The lady smiled sweetly as she replaced the Snickers and picked up a Hershey's bar and continued her careful analysis of the label.

"No, but-"

"Well, then why are you trying to kick out the people who are still shopping? That's bad business." She waved a hand of dismissal, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that my cashier was struggling not to cry.

"Ma'am, we closed at six. It is now almost seven. We have families to get to. I'm going to have to ask that you either check out NOW, or return your cart to the service desk and resume your shopping when we reopen the day after tomorrow."

I began to pull her cart to the cashier, and the lady grabbed it with surprising strength.

"The customer is always right," she grunted at me.

"We. Are. Closed." I grunted back.

"This is poor service," she snapped.

"I don't owe you any service after hours," I retorted.

We were just about to come to blows when the manager came rushing up to see why I hadn't yet brought back my tills to the office. He glanced from me to the lady, and then gasped.

"Mom! What are you still doing here?"

The driver behind me slammed on his horn as I cut him off. I didn't even bother giving him the finger. I had no time for people who barely went the speed limit. Only ten minutes left, and the track was still three miles away.

Bernie had called with the tip an hour before post time. His girlfriend's cousin worked at the local racecourse, where a horse named Dreamchaser was running in today's seventh race. Her odds were currently 10-to-1, but Bernie swore she was a lock to win. She'd never finished any race better than fifth, but Bernie claimed her jockey had been holding her back. The owners wanted to keep the odds high until they found a race their horse could dominate. That race was today, and I had to get to the betting window in the next ten minutes to share in the payoff.

The track was twenty miles from work, and I had to make a stop at the bank. I needed cash; Trisha handles the bills, and she couldn't see a credit card charge from the track. She had warned me what would happen if she caught me gambling again, and wouldn't care that the bet had been a sure thing. There was two grand in the account, and I withdrew it all. It would be back in a few hours, with Trisha none the wiser. I'd have to figure out a way to explain the winnings, but that was the kind of problem I liked.

Traffic was miserable, but my luck improved once I finally reached the track. I hit the parking lot just as someone was pulling out from a prime spot. I heard the track announcer's call as I ran for the ticket booth.

"Two minutes to post for the seventh race. Two minutes."

Two minutes, and I wasn't even inside yet. I shoved a twenty at the guy in the booth and grabbed my ticket and race form. I vaulted up the steps to the betting windows, leafing through the race listings. There she was, Seventh Race, Number Six, Dreamchaser. My luck held at the windows. One of them had no line, and I ran up, money in hand.

I heard the post bell go off, but I slapped the money down anyway. "Two thousand on Six to win."

The teller's face hardened. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid I can't accept any further bets." The words were polite, but the tone held no sympathy.

"But I was at the window before the bell rang!" I couldn't believe she was going to let a few seconds take away my twenty grand.

"All bets are locked out when the bell rings. There is nothing I can do." She looked over my shoulder as she spoke, and I knew a security goon was approaching. I wanted to reach over and throttle her, but it wasn't worth a night in jail.

I walked over to the bar and ordered a double whiskey. Five seconds earlier, maybe even two seconds, and I'd have been a rich man. Why was I given this opportunity, only to have it yanked away?

The overhead monitors were showing the race. I had to watch, no matter how painful. The horses were coming around the stretch turn, and I looked for Number Six to be leading the pack.

Only she wasn't. She wasn't even in view as the camera followed the winner across the finish line. Bernie's great big tip had been a great big bust. I laughed out loud, more than I had laughed in years, as Dreamchaser brought up the rear.

If Bernie had called earlier, if traffic had been lighter, if that teller had been nicer, I'd have just lost two thousand dollars. Instead, I could leave right now, drive to the bank, and re-deposit the money. Everything would be back to normal, with no harm done.

I downed my drink and headed for the parking lot, throwing my racing form towards a trashcan. I'm a better gambler than basketball player; it hit the rim and landed back at my feet. As I bent over to retrieve it, I saw it had fallen open to the eighth race.

The first horse listed was Destiny's Darling. That name seemed to glow on the page. I had been waiting all my life for a sign, and finally it had appeared.

The monitors were showing the odds for the next race. Destiny's Darling was at 20-to-1, or forty grand in my pocket when she won. I couldn't believe I had almost let myself walk out with nothing. As I turned back to the betting windows, I heard the announcer's call.

"Ten minutes to post for the eighth race. Ten minutes."

Plenty of time.

"Mrs. Roberts? I'm Dr. Muller."

Finally! Maybe I can find out what's going on.

"Yes, I'm Lisa Roberts. How is he?"

My sweet Lisa. Always at my side. My soul mate.

"I'm afraid that the prognosis isn't good. He suffered severe head trauma and bleeding, and there is permanent, irreversible damage."

"Is there anything we can do?"

Don't cry, Lisa. I'm here. I can't hold you right now, but I will. Just hold on a little longer.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Roberts, but it would be unfair of me to offer you a false hope. We've done all of the tests, and there is no sign of any higher brain functions."

"Higher functions?"

Good question, Lisa! I'm still here. Lower the medicine and I'll be fine.

"His body is still functioning, but his mind — his soul, if you will — is no longer there.

Wrong! That's the problem with doctors; they think they know everything.

"Are you telling me he's brain dead?"

Don't cry, Lisa! It's not true! I promised to be with you always, and I will. We've overcome challenges before. We'll win this time, too.

"His brain functions are minimal."

"What are you saying?"

Yeah, what are you saying? Let me tell you, I'm not feeling too minimal right now. Annoyed, maybe, but not "minimal."

"Mrs. Roberts, your husband is gone. All that you see here is an empty shell."

Empty shell? Does an empty shell feel anger? Or rage?

"What are the next steps?"

That's my Lisa! Always thinking, always looking ahead. That's one of the things I love about you, honey.

"Well, you have two options. The first option is to leave him on the ventilator. His heart is strong, his organs are functioning normally. He's not in any pain..."

Ha! Wrong again! I have a headache the size of Texas, and you're not helping any.

"...he's not suffering. Over the course of the next few days, his organs will slowly shut down, and he'll die. A week, ten days at the most."

Gee, a real optimist, aren't you? Haven't you ever heard of the resiliency of the human spirit?

"What's the other option?"

"I'm sure you're familiar with the organ donor program."

Hey, hold up here! I'm still using these organs, if you don't mind.

"Bob always said he wanted to be a donor. 'Parts is parts,' he'd say.

"Then I think that you ought to give this some consideration. If you take him off the ventilator, his organs will be healthy enough to donate to people on the transplant lists."

Lisa! Lisa! Don't listen to him. Give me a chance!

"And if we wait?"

"At that point, they wouldn't be suitable for donation."

Why are you silent? You're not seriously thinking about this, are you? Look at me. Look at me! Can't you see me in here? Can't you tell that I'm not gone?

"Mrs. Roberts?"

"Can I think about it overnight?"

"I wish we had that luxury. Unfortunately, there is a very limited window for organ donation."

You b*****d! As if she's not suffering enough, you need to do the hard sell. Who's on that list — your mother? Or do you get a kick-back on every organ you procure?

"Five minutes — can I have five minutes alone with Bob?"

I have her full attention — this is my chance. I need to move, or blink, or...something. They need to know that I'm still here. Maybe I can move my hand, or a finger. Come on Bobby boy, you can do it. You have to do it. Concentrate...concentrate...

"Bob, I know you can't hear me. I know that you're already gone. But this is hard, so hard. Do I hold on to you? Keep you with me for just a few more days? I know it's selfish, but I don't want to let go. I can't imagine life without you. As long as you're here, I can pretend. I can pretend that you'll recover, that a miracle will happen and you'll come back to me."

It's not selfish, honey. I'm a fighter, and I'll fight anything to stay here with you.

"But you're not coming back. If I let you go now, a miracle will happen for dozens of others. You'll be gone, but your love and spirit will live on."

This can't be happening. Lisa, don't do this. I'm not ready to go. What do I have? Hours? Minutes? How small is that "window" the doctor mentioned? Look at me, Lisa. Look at me. Don't let me go.

I feel your hair on my cheek, your lips on my forehead. It can't end like this. I want to hold you close, wipe the tears from your eyes...

"Good-bye, Bob."

The evening before the proposal was due, Gerry Walker and the key members of the Excalibur II team were hand-collating the fifteen required copies of their 335-page volume.

Despite all the planning, it seems that big proposal efforts always end in a panic. Senior engineers, deputy program managers, senior staff, technical writers, and even the section head were all madly walking down a table lined with photocopies, picking pages from sequential piles, and making up chapters the old-fashioned way. Meanwhile, pages were being reproduced at laser printers and satellite copy centers all over the building. The copies were being run past the hopelessly jammed high-speed central copy machine, all the way back to the conference room that had been dedicated to Excalibur for the past six months. Harry was running the paper punch, and Julie was running the binder.

Harry swore as he ruined a copy of Appendix 7 by punching the wrong edge of the paper. He'd been awake for 35 hours, and his already-acerbic interpersonal style had become positively crabby. Wendy saw what had happened. "It's OK, Harry; I'll run you another copy," she called, and she flew out the door with the master.

"Thanks," Harry muttered.

It's almost the twenty-first century! There has to be a better way to do this, thought Gerry. He'd been working on the $50 million Excalibur opportunity for eighteen months, ever since the government had issued their notice of intent. In that time he'd negotiated preliminary statements of work with twelve subcontractors, developed a statement of work for his own business, worked out the pricing for that effort, and lead the proposal team in writing it all up. He had been working ten hour days, then twelve, then fifteen, and now it was coming down to the wire. Just like always. The deadline was absolute―NLT COB 27 May 1994―no later than close of business 27 May 1994. Tomorrow. The work, as always, kept trying to push the timeline to the right.

Wendy ran in with a new copy of Appendix 7, and collating and binding continued. Gerry ran through the shipping contingencies in his head. They'd already missed the overnight mail pickup. There was only an hour left to get to the downtown post office in time for the Postal Service. That wasn't going to happen, either. There were two hours left to make Fed-X, which was still possible. They had until six AM to make the airlines' counter-to-counter service. It shouldn't be a problem, if everything ran smoothly. He crossed his fingers.

His crossed fingers didn't work.

Jack Hale from Procurement ran in. "Gerry, the numbers from Consolidated are wrong. Here's the revision." He threw them at Gerry and ran for his life.

Gerry wanted to reflect on Jack's parentage, describe his ability to perform impossible gymnastic activities, and characterize the depth and breadth of his knowledge of anatomy, but he didn't have time. At least Jack had run off enough copies of the changes.

Julie overheard their conversation, and was already unbinding the nine copies that had been completed. The rest of the team kept walking the table.

In just over an hour, the incorrect pages were replaced. It was done. Gerry dismissed his team with heartfelt thanks, and promised them a win party to end all win parties in a few months. There was no credible competition for Excalibur. All he had to do now was get the proposal in on time.

Gerry called Sam at the branch office in D.C. He apologized for the late hour, and told him the plans: The proposal would be shipped counter-to-counter on the first flight to D.C. that morning. Sam would pick it up at National Airport and run it over to the procurement office at the Pentagon. It wasn't the way Gerry liked to do business, but Sam understood―he'd been in the same position himself.

Gerry drove the box of copies to the airport, narrowly escaping a collision with a drunk driver on the way. That would have been ironic, he thought. He got a receipt, and watched the boxes disappear into the airline's package office. For the first time in eighteen months, he had nothing to do.

He was home in bed by two in the morning.

Gerry called Sam the next day. It was afternoon in Washington. "Sam, did you get the proposal OK?" he asked.

"It got here at 11:30," Sam said. He sounded funny, and the hairs on the back of Gerry's neck started to stand up, all by themselves. "But Gerry, there was a problem."

Oh, no, Gerry thought. "Sam? What problem?"

"I went straight to the Pentagon, Gerry, but it's Memorial Day weekend. The office closed early―ten minutes before I got there."

----

(Inspired by a true story)

I was pouring the milk on my cereal when it came. It had been weeks since a slip of paper had been slid under my door, and I was hoping a few more weeks would pass before I was handed another assignment so I could get rid of this cold. I dropped a teabag into my mug and sat down to eat, but it was no use; the paper was calling me.

"Can't it wait?" I muttered, feeling stupid for saying it out loud.

Pick me up. Piiiiiiiiick meeeeeeeee uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.

I sighed and heaved myself up from my perch. I shuffled to the front door, massaging various aches and pains, and stood staring at the neatly folded piece of pink paper. He had never used pink before, so I held the tiniest of hopes that it was instead a note from my neighbor accusing me of stealing her newspaper or throwing rocks at her dog or some other such deed which I was sure she hadn't seen me do. My back creaked as I bent to pick up the happy piece of paper. Nope, no angry neighbor; I was never that lucky.

It took me no time at all to peruse the contents of the note. It was the usual information — picture, name, location, date. No, not a date, but a time. I glanced at my watch and groaned. I had less than two hours, and it could take that long just to get my things together and to get downtown. I coughed crabbily and headed into the bathroom. I washed my face and tugged my hair into a ponytail - no time for a shower this morning. Oh, a shower! A long, steamy shower with lavender bath soaps was just what I needed to feel human again. I closed my eyes and smiled; I could almost feel the water pulsing and pounding into my skin, kneading my muscles an- Stop! I shook myself awake with a snort. I couldn't afford to waste time, or else it would be my name written on a sheet of neon paper and shoved under a door.

I dropped to my knees and began to pry up the tiles on the bathroom floor. The twin knobs of the safe stared at me impatiently as I twirled them, simultaneously dialing the two combinations. The urge to sneeze almost derailed my concentration, but I had done this often enough that the lid clicked open quick as a bunny.

The ring was a class ring from the University of Minnesota. It was fairly modest — a thin gold band mounted with onyx. I filled a small hypodermic with antivenin and jammed it into my thigh. I filled a second hypo with a somewhat different liquid and injected it into a reservoir in the class ring. After my supplies were safely stashed away and the safe hidden, I put the ring on my right hand, carefully avoiding two tiny spikes on the underside of the ring.

It was a warm day, and for that I was grateful. I normally worked while posing as a jogger, and on a day like this I wouldn't be the only girl out for a run. While I pulled on my shorts and sports bra, I ran all the possible routes through my head and chose the three best; things rarely went wrong, but I liked to have my backups ready. Two minutes later, I was out the door.

Now, I'm a regular runner, but this cold was wearing me down. I had only gone two miles, and I was already on the verge of collapse. The air in this city didn't help, either. I swore my watch was running faster than I was. The trip downtown, however, was unusually uneventful, and I got to my destination about ten minutes ahead of schedule. If I had been feeling better, I would have looped around the block, but I decided to sip my sports drink and cool down instead. It was a good decision; she was early. I stretched some, then bounded off in her direction. Clumsy me, I tripped on a shoelace and nearly knocked her over! Steadying myself with my right hand on her shoulder, I apologized profusely. She shrugged it off with a laugh — "It happens to me all the time!" — and turned to cross the street. In the middle of the crosswalk, she paused and put a hand to her head. She would have fallen if that bus hadn't plowed into her first. I joined the gathering crowd and gasped and gaped like a good citizen for a little while before heading on home.

When I got back, there was a fat lime green envelope tucked under my door and a whiny note from my neighbor taped to the doorknob.

With minutes remaining, the one hour deadline was due to expire and the demands had yet to be met.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fifty-seven minutes earlier, the negotiator covered the headset's mouthpiece and whispered to the Chief of Police, "They're releasing a hostage."

"Hold your fire. They're releasing a hostage", echoed Chief McNally to his men in position.

The busiest intersection in downtown Detroit was shut down. The streets, deserted of civilians, were heavily repopulated with law enforcement and emergency personnel. Circling red lights from the silenced sirens streaked across the buildings in dizzy swirls of continuous motion. A radio crackled from within the closed doors of a waiting ambulance. The dispatcher's muffled words temporarily broke the silence. The next sound came from the ornate double doors of the First Union Bank.

Click.

The door opened but only an inch. Moments passed like hours. Then as slowly as the door had opened, it closed shut. No one emerged. Click.

Everyone outside the bank exhaled in unison. The negotiator tried to reestablish contact while the streets buzzed with a hushed anxiety. Cautious officers crept to better vantage points as the Police Chief threw his arms up in the air. "Why no hostage?" It was a mumbled question he asked to himself. He walked out from behind his cover, paced twenty steps closer to the bank and stood in full view of the curtain drawn windows. Again he threw up his arms, silently asking the hostage takers the same question. With that, there was a response.

Click.

The door opened one inch, then slowly more. Chief McNally, out in the open at the foot of the bank's stairs, stood his ground, realizing that it was too late to run for cover. It was a tactical mistake made out of frustration. For over three hours, the hostage takers had antagonized his men with a mysterious deal. The specifics would not be revealed until their first demand was met; they wanted Chief McNally and would only deal with him. Now that it was apparent he had indeed arrived, the door opened wider. A young boy no more than eight was forcibly pushed out. A brown paper bag had been placed over his head. The child stumbled then landed in an awkward heap at the top of the steep stairs. The door swung shut. Click. The Chief approached assessing the situation. He knew that the child was a boy by the clothes he wore. The unlaced sneakers and ripped baggy pants were enough of a clue. What clinched it for him was seeing the house-league hockey jersey. On the sleeve was the number 17. Chief McNally's heart sank. The boy stood up, disoriented then spun around. On the back of the jersey was the name McNally. Young Jason McNally Jr. took one step backwards, his foot finding air as he began to fall down the steep steps. His father caught him with shaking arms, and ran for cover.

Protected behind an armored police command center truck, Chief McNally hugged his son tight, his ear pressed alongside the bag still concealing his boy's head. He ripped the bag off without easing up on his firm grip. "Are you all right?" His son, shaking, nodded yes. The recognition of his father's voice made him hang on even tighter; trembling legs wrapped around the waist of his daddy. The Chief could not see his son's face due to their close embrace, but he knew that his boy was scared to tears.

With wide eyes, the negotiator, standing behind Chief McNally stared into the violated face of the crying boy. Streams of tears marked the child's soft flesh, as did something else. "Chief," he summoned urgently, but with reluctance. The Chief, not ready to resume his command, wanted to be a dad for a while longer. "Chief! You need to see this."

He turned to the negotiator who, with a look of horror, signaled to the boy's face. Chief McNally loosened his embrace as moments resumed to hours. In what seemed like slow motion, he began to lean back towards his son. The siren's red lights danced across the back of the boy's messy long hair. A hushed crowd was forming at a respectful distance. The Chief's eyes darted to the side, out racing the turn of his neck as more of his son was revealed. He saw the familiar curves of the boy's ear, his neck and then his short sideburns. A radio crackled and somewhere from what seemed like worlds away, a dispatcher spoke. The Chief registered the words, "hostage" and "McNally family", but his attention was focused on the tear-smeared words scrawled in thick black marker across his son's horrified face.

'YOUR WIFE AND DAUGHTER FOR A HELICOPTER. YOU HAVE ONE HOUR.'

"You have until Wednesday to decide. If you don't, I'll decide for you." I raised my chin with more confidence then I felt, as I slipped my wedding ring off and dropped it in his palm. Then, with as much dignity as I could muster, I walked from the room.

Once I got to the sanctuary of the kitchen, I dissolved. How had things gotten so bad? I washed the dishes that were in the sink with cold water and tears. Our heat had been turned off three days ago, after he'd gone on a gambling spree with my last paycheck, and I'd been forced to choose between gas or water.

Either way, I wouldn't be able to take hot showers.

I glanced around the squalor that was my home. Why was I even giving him a deadline to choose? I knew I should just leave. A sudden kick in my swelling belly reminded me why I hadn't already.

I rubbed at the swelling mound beneath my dress. Wednesday. One way or the other, it was going to change my life. It was the day my cesarean was scheduled for. It was the day my marriage would either end or start over. It was the day I would become mother, perhaps in the stead of wife.

I sighed heavily as I glanced over at the nearly empty pantry. I would face Wednesday when it came. For now, I had to figure out what I was going to serve my husband for dinner.

*****

I was supposed to be at the hospital by six. He was supposed to take me. I paced nervously in the living room. Where was he? He knew that our child was to be born today.

I started when the phone rang. I picked it up, bracing myself for his usual barrage of apologies.

Instead, an unfamiliar voice was on the other end.

"Is this Mrs. Smith?"

Cautiously, I said, "may I ask who's calling?"

"Ma'am, this is the sheriff's office. We need to confirm if this is the Smith residence, due to a matter of some importance."

I sighed heavily, and rubbed at a sore spot low on my belly. "What did my husband do now?"

"We'd rather talk to you in person. We'll send an officer by shortly."

I began to protest that I was supposed to be at the hospital, but there was a sharp click in my ear as the officer hung up.

About ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door. I opened it, fully prepared to unleash my displeasure at having to stay miserably pregnant for any longer than I had to. His hat in his hands stilled me.

"Mrs. Smith, I'm sorry... it appears your husband committed suicide early this morning."

I sank into a nearby chair.

"Um, there was a note..." The officer cleared his throat nervously, and handed me a crumpled sheet of paper. "We're having a hard time making sense of it, though."

I reached out and took the paper from him with a hand much steadier than I expected myself to have. On it, in my husband's scrawl, there were four words. I read them, and then dropped the paper to the ground. It drifted to the floor, landing message side up, for anyone to read: "It's Wednesday. I've chosen."

The phone rang. Leaping from his chair, Greg took two steps toward the prepaid cellular phone on his coffee table and stopped. He stared at the phone as it's first ring gave way to silence. Greg ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the phone. It rang again. The little red light at the base of the antenna flashed red to compliment the audible ring. Under other circumstances, he would wonder to why that was. Under these circumstances the ringing, flashing phone filled him with hope and dread at the same time. Greg picked up the phone and pressed the "Talk" button as it started it's third ring.

"Hello?" he said, trying not to sound nervous.

"Mister Hayes." The feelings of hope and dread inside of Greg Hayes intensified. It was the call he had been waiting for. "I trust you have followed my instructions to the letter?"

Greg swallowed hard. His legs felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else. "Yes," he said. "I have the package with me right here. Now please..."

"Mister Hayes," the man on the other end interrupted, "when this call is completed, you will open the front door of your apartment. In front of your door will be today's newspaper. Bring it inside and remove it from the plastic bag. In the middle of the newspaper you will find a key. This key opens a locker in the Atlantic City Bus Terminal. Take the package to the bus terminal and place it in the locker. Do you understand so far?"

"Yes. Go on." Beads of sweat started to form on Greg's forehead. There was more. Thank God there was more.

Greg's life had taken a decidedly strange turn over the past twenty hours. At 7:59pm yesterday, he was a normal twenty seven year old on his way out for a night at the bar. He had nothing more to worry about than whether he would be hung over the next day. Then, everything changed. Two large men grabbed him off the sidewalk and drug him down an alley and thrust a syringe into his leg. As quickly as they had grabbed him, the men were gone. He had barely gotten to his feet when he heard a ringing sound coming from his left coat pocket. The voice he was now listening to had addressed him by name and immediately started to give him instructions. He was to drive to from his Philadelphia home to Columbus, Ohio and pick up a package behind a dumpster. He was to bring that package back to his apartment and await further instruction. Greg had told his new acquaintance that he wanted nothing to do with whatever was going on. It was then that he was informed that he had been injected with a poison that would kill him within 24 hours. The only way to get the antidote was to do as he was told. As if to drive this point home, Greg was told that next to the package he was retrieving was the body of a man who had failed to meet his deadline. The directions were in the same pocket in which he had found the cell phone. Greg had immediately gone to his car and headed west on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The trip from Philadelphia to Cincinnati and back had taken almost twenty hours. Greg hadn't slept and had only eaten once. He had just used the restroom and sat down when the phone rang.

"You will go into the restroom adjacent to the bathroom and place the key behind the toilet on the middle stall on your right. You will then proceed back to your apartment, where you will find directions to the antidote in your mailbox. The trip to Atlantic City will take you at least an hour each way, and you only have four hours left. In fact, you will start to become fatigued on the way home. Shortly after reaching your apartment, you will start to become confused. Within the next hour, your motor skills will start to diminish, and you will be incapable of driving. I don't think I have to remind you not to involve the authorities, do I?"

"No," said Greg. His mind was too busy calculating how long this trip would take to thing about calling the cops.

"Good. If my people were to encounter any problems when delivering the directions to your mailbox, the antidote would NOT be there when you went to get it."

"I understand completely. Thank You." Greg grimaced. Had he just thanked the man that had him injected with a poison to get him to do his bidding?

"Time is of the essence, Mr. Hayes. Goodbye." The phone went dead.