Thursday morning
Mason sat in his desk chair with both hands behind his head, elbows out and his chair tilted as far back as it would go. Through the office windows clouds moseyed by as though completely content with their place in the bright, sunny sky. He should have been contemplating the exchange loss on the New York City build that his Controller seemed overtly concerned about. He should have been reviewing the reforecast numbers for the final quarter. But at that moment, the only thing his mind seemed capable of focussing on was how meringue-like the stratocumulus appeared above him. When the intercom on the phone chirped its forewarning of human interaction, he sighed as though he suspected the voice on the other end was calling him to his doom.
He didn’t bother to pick up the han
