Free Dante's Dilemma by Lynne Raimondo Page B

She stopped short, growing suspicious. “Why does it interest you?”
    â€œI was just thinking . . . But you’re probably not up to it.” I turned and strolled casually back to my office. Yelena considered the meaning of this for a full two seconds before following me over.
    â€œLet me help with that,” she said, taking the box I had just shifted from the top of the stack.
    â€œNo, please. It’s not fair with you being in such pain.”
    â€œThat’s why it pays to work for a doctor.”
    â€œTrue. And it’s my professional opinion that you need time off to recover—but not until we’ve figured out what’s in all of these, OK?”
    â€œSlave driver,” Yelena said.
    After Yelena left, I stood for a moment, deciding which of a multitude of chores to tackle first. My office reeked of new carpet smell and sawdust, but a full survey of the damage would have to wait. My desktop computer was probably sitting somewhere, but it would take a while to find and even longer to get booted up. My phone would be much faster.
    People were often surprised by what I could do with a phone, especially one with a flat, glass touchscreen. But a series of recent innovations had made the devices the best friend a blind person could have. The majority of apps on my phone were only a few years old, could be downloaded at little cost or for free, and did much more than give me access to the same technology as everyone else. With them I could also recognize colors, ascertain the value of paper currency, and figure out exactly where I was standing on a street—all without having to ask a single soul. About the only thing my phone couldn’t do was let me see who I was talking to, though it was only a matter of time before some child genius at MIT came up with an app for that, too.
    In this case, I moved my finger around the glass until Weary—my name for the factory-supplied voiceover—told me it was over the icon for my e-mail program. A double-tap got me in, and swiping with three fingers took me down the subject lines of my messages. Jonathan had wasted no time in shifting my patient load, and my in-box contained only a fraction of its usual contents. Unless it was another sign that I was on my way out the door, I wouldn’t have to worry about returning to a mountain of work. In a major disappointment, there was nothing from Kay Bergen, but I reminded myself to be patient.
    After that, it was time to tackle the mystery that was my redecorated office. I retrieved my cane from its hook on the door and started on a walking tour, crossing from wall to wall in a gridlike pattern so as not to miss out on anything. My old stuff was completely gone, but the floor plan was essentially the same: a desktop in front of a credenza and shelves, a sofa and chair set in the area closest to the window. The upholstery felt like it belonged in a hotel lobby, but at least I could count on Jonathan to have selected an inoffensive color. I reminded myself to compliment him on his taste the next time I ran into him. Though perhaps not, since it would inevitably raise questions about my sincerity.
    In a far corner, I found the carton where my personal effects, including my collection of toys and memorabilia, had been dumped. They would all have to be sent home, another victim of my campaign to remain gainfully employed. When I eventually rediscovered my computer—beneath an L-shaped extension of the desk—it was cold, but all of the peripherals had been hooked up: a monitor I kept mostly for appearances’ sake, a headset and speakers, a refreshable Braille display for when I tired of listening to synthetic speech, and a QWERTY keyboard that I used for typing, never having fully mastered the six-key Braille counterpart. I flicked the computer on and sat down to work.
    Inspired perhaps by the season of giving—if not the full-day spa pass I’d surprised her with as a