TIMOTHY ARRIVED AT MCDONALDS RIGHT ON TIME.

He was dressed in the striped uniform, though it was less dirty now that he washed it. Timothy hoped the fat woman-whom Timothy supposed was the boss-wouldn’t notice it. She might realize that Timothy had access to a washer and therefore, clean clothes.

But the manager wasn’t even there. No one wanted to be on graveyard shift.

Timothy took his place behind the counter, happy that he had a large window next to him. There was only one customer sipping coffee in the far corner. Timothy used the time to get used to the McDonalds computer interface.

The first customer arrived in a few minutes. He was a dark, unshaven man who smelled strongly of cigarettes.

“Good evening sir, how may I—”

“The usual,” he interrupted in a gruff voice, then coughed. Timothy resisted the urge to wave away the smell of smoke.

“I apologize, sir, but I don’t know—”

“Black, all the way through.”

“What size—”

“Do you think I look like a man who drinks from a tiny cup?” A credit card was shoved into Timothy’s face.

Timothy gulped, and pressed the appropriate buttons. “Please help yourself to the coun—”

“It’s goddamn black coffee! How long will it take to make that!” the man shouted.

Timothy was starting to understand the infamous graveyard shift. “I apologize—” but an employee had already hurried to place the cup on the counter.

The man grabbed it, and snorted, leaving McDonalds smelling of a pack of cigarettes. The man in the corner hurried to leave too.

The rest of the shift was about as bad at the man. Even the Asian family had struck up an argument when Timothy couldn’t understand what they wanted (a bowl of porridge). But Timothy was quite sure of one thing: he had heard no one climbing up the side of the building, and taping a sign to the large “M”.

Timothy ended the shift even more depressed than before. His dog was hospitalized, and the whole sign was a hoax after all.

As he left McDonalds and turned on the headlights of his car, Timothy glanced up at the sign once more.

It was exactly the same.

Except…

Timothy gave a start. The sign now said the date was Sunday. Tomorrow! So someone had come and climbed up so silently, Timothy hadn’t heard!

Or maybe…

Timothy shook his head. No. It couldn’t have been the drone. No drone was good enough to do this. It simply wasn’t invented yet.

With that, Timothy drove home, vowing to himself that he would witness whatever was going to happen tomorrow.

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

THE DATE HAD BEEN SET.

Nick would be meeting with Exflipper tomorrow.

Before she could leave, however, a few things needed to be taken care of. The first of which was Ms. Wooddell.

Ms. Wooddell was the old lady next door, who was very fond of cats. Nick’s mom usually asked Mrs. Fanil to babysit Nick, but Mrs. Fanil had gone to visit her daughter in Boston.

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Ms. Wooddell was old. She was afraid to use telephones, because she always thought she’d be electrocuted by them. However, Ms. Wooddell often would write a letter and ask a neighbor to post it to the house next door, as Ms. Wooddell refused to leave her cats unattended. Nick had a suspicion that Ms. Wooddell wouldn’t have come to see Nick anyway, even if Nick left the house, but she had to make sure.

Nick set off to the next-door house.

There was a great shuffling from inside, and someone elderly said, “Oh, do stop, Max. Those are the new curtains. I just got them last month.”

The door was opened, and Ms. Wooddell came forward.

Ms. Wooddell was a plump old lady with pink cheeks and a bobbing pile of white hair pinned to her head. “Oh, Marine isn’t it? Yes, yes, your mother said you would be alone. Oh, you should come in. So lonely, aren’t you? Your poor mother always seems to be in a hurry. Comes home very late.”

Nick replied with a thank you politely, silently wondering how late Ms. Wooddell stayed up to see her mom drive back, then faked a sneeze.

“Bless you, dearie, do you need a napkin?” Ms. Wooddell plodded to the coffee table and plucked a tissue out of a flowery box. Nick accepted it gratefully. It smelled of strong perfume and was rather rough and uncomfortable.

Nick was offered a seat on an overstuffed couch, and took it, sinking in rather uncomforatbly. For a moment, she thought of Mama bear's chair in Goldilocks: too soft. Nick then pretended to just notice Max, though he had been meowing loudly for attention.

“Oh, do you keep cats?” Nick asked, with faked surprise.

“Oh, yes.” Ms. Wooddell answered with pride, “this here, is dear old Max. He’s thirteen now, you know. Perhaps he’s as older than you?”

“That would depend on his birthday, wouldn’t it? I just turned thirteen last month.”

“Then Max would be older than you. He’s nearly fourteen.” Ms. Wooddell said with great satisfaction, as if she should get an award for her excellent cat breeding.

Nick smiled, then sneezed again.

“Oh, dear,” Ms. Wooddell said, “Are you quite all right? Is it too cold?”

It was not cold at all, but rather overheated. “No, I’m sorry, Ms. Wooddell, but I’m allergic to cats, it seems.”

“Oh, dear,” Ms. Wooddell repeated, slightly downcast, “Your mother never mentioned it to me.”

“Well, my mother is always in rather a hurry, you see, and usually Mrs. Fanil looks after me.”

“Mrs. Fanil? Isn’t that the lady at number three? Oh, quite nice, I think, always sending fruit cake when she comes around. Not as nice as my mother’s fruit cake, but it’s alright, I suppose. I’m horrible at baking anything, so it’s nice when someone comes and sends some home-baked treats. I hate the ones in the grocery store. Ms. Fanil knows nothing of cats, unfortunately. I shouldn’t think I’ll ever ask her to look after Max again.”

“Oh?” Nick commented. She sniffed and wiped her nose.

“But her daughter is rather a nasty sort. Always was when she was a child. Teased the cats, she did. Mrs. Fanil spoiled her daughter, I should imagine. Her daughter was always yelling or throwing a tantrum when they came home from shopping. Mrs. Fanil didn’t buy the toy she wanted. And then, in a matter of minutes, her daughter would get what she wanted. Poor Mrs. Fanil. Oh, do you need another napkin?”

Nick nodded her head.

“Then, of course, there was Mr. Fanil—a drunkard I believe. They were divorced very quickly after they had a daughter, I believe. Horrible man, he was. I believe he’s gone and tried to get another woman—though I wouldn’t say he’d succeed. He was rather ugly to begin with. Oh dear, it seems as if your allergies are getting worse.”

Nick had been faking sneezes and coughs more and more often. “I didn’t realize my allergies were so strong,” she admitted.

“Oh dear.” Ms. Wooddell seemed very fond of saying that. “Is there anything I could do?”

Nick moved to stand up. “I’m so, so, sorry, Ms. Wooddell, but perhaps I should leave. I don’t want to have too strong an allergic reaction, and have to go to the doctor’s or something. My mother would have to cancel that very important meeting and fly all the way back.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose you shouldn’t stay very much longer,” Ms. Wooddell agreed, very unhappily, “but I don’t know how else to look after you. I really don’t want to leave Max alone, you see, because he’s really very old for a cat, and I don’t want him to die without me.”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself too much. I’ve stayed at home myself plenty of times. I’ll be quite fine. If I leave now, I won’t even need to take my allergy medicine. And you can always call,” Nick added, though she was quite sure of the answer.

“Oh, dear. I don’t trust telephones very much. I’ve heard people get shocked or electricitied by them. Though everyone says they are quite safe now, but one can never be too careful. One nasty shock may be all it takes to get my heart a nasty start. Are you quite sure you’ll be fine? I would send someone to mail a letter—”

“Please don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be quite fine.”

“Oh, I do wish I could do more.”

“I should probably go now,” Nick said with more finality, and sneezed once more for effect.

“Oh dear. Goodbye now. Are you sure you’ll be quite all right? Your allergy seems quite strong.”

“I’ll be fine. Really. Take care of Max. Goodbye, Ms. Wooddell.”

“Oh, bye Nick. I really, really wish I could do more for your poor mother.”

Nick waved, sniffed, and left through the front door.