Free The Hole in the Middle by Kate Hilton Page A

asleep on the couch at six o’clock last night. By now, I would have thought that you knew to avoid mistakes like that.”
    Now that I’ve extracted proof of my suspicions, I’m on the offensive. “Well, you weren’t here, were you?” I snap. “Scotty fell asleep and I was supposed to wake him up? He’s sick. I didn’t think the extra rest could hurt.”
    â€œFine. What’s done is done. Let’s move on,” he says. “I’ve got to get going anyway. I have an early meeting. My mother will be here at eight-thirty to watch Scotty for the day.”
    I could be furious with him for leaving me alone for the early shift, but I’m too tired to fight and almost pathetically grateful that he has taken control of the childcare arrangements for the day. So I say, “OK. Have a good meeting.” And I lean in for a kiss.
    Jesse puts a hand on my shoulder and stops me. “No way, Soph,” he says. “You’ve been sick for two weeks. The last thing we need is for me to get it too.” He pats my arm. “See you tonight.”

    Jesse is right. I am sick. And now I look it, because with Jesse’s early departure I didn’t have time to shower or put on makeup. Nigel has my number, and today, I fear, it’s up—which is why I’m lurking by the garbage cans at the back of the hospital, waiting for the deliveries to start so that I can sneak into the building through the loading dock. The stench of rotting cafeteria waste is gut-wrenching, but the smokers brave it every day, and I can do it for five minutes until the first truck arrives. It occurs to me that if I were a more “integrated” person, which Zoe is always encouraging me to become, I would cling more resolutely to the small amount of dignity that I have left. But then I hear the happy sound of a diesel engine, and I brush away these unpleasant thoughts and concentrate on building a little staircase out of cardboard boxes. As the truck pulls in and the loading-dock door rolls up, I hop from box to box and launch myself off the rim of the nearest Dumpster and over onto the ledge. The receiving clerk gapes, astonished, as I vanish into the bowels of the hospital in a puff of exhaust fumes.
    The first sign that something is wrong comes in the elevator. I get a couple of strange looks from the other passengers, one of whom covers her nose and mouth with her hand. I’m still incredibly congested, so I can’t confirm it, but the evidence suggests that my morning exploits have had an unexpected consequence. I know I’ll get an honest reaction from Joy, who is always enthusiastic about sharing bad news, and I’m not disappointed. She purses her mouth in a little moue of distaste, wrinkles her nose for effect, and says, “What is that revolting smell?”
    But she has overplayed her hand, because she has kept me at her desk long enough for me to see that she is in the middle of an epic game of solitaire, and she knows that I know it. So I take full advantage of my upper hand and put a ten-dollar bill in her in-tray. “Could you please do me a favor, Joy?” I ask sweetly. “If you wouldn’t mind running down to the pharmacy in the lobby for me and picking up a bottle of Febreze, it would be a big help. I had a mishap taking out the garbage this morning.”
    I can see the thought bubble forming above Joy’s head with the words I HATE YOU in bold type in the air, but she knows that she has lost this round. She nods curtly, scoops up the money, and stalks off. As I watch her go, I think that a job, like any intense relationship, can go sour even from the most promising beginnings. When the Baxter and I first got together six years ago, it was pretty hot: the Baxter loved my hunger and creativity, and the awards I won for designing its website and magazine, and I loved having a senior title and a staff and a reasonable budget for the first