“Mr. Thews. Mr. Thews?” the voice of my supervisor rose insistently.

I tore myself away from staring out the window, imagining routes and jumps among the facets and ledges of nearby buildings, “Yes ma’am?”

“If you’re quite done with your daydream…”

“I prefer to call it a dream by day,” I interupted. I wouldn’t be so impertinent if I wasn’t so fed up with the job.

She just sighed her usual put-upon sigh, “That makes no sense, but you rarely do, do you?” We exchanged looks of agreed and mutual dislike.

After a bit more of a pause than I was comfortable with this whithered shrew standing over my cubicle I deigned to ask, “You wanted something?”

A tremendous stack of papers thudded onto my desk shattering what little illusion of sanity to which I still clung, “New data on the Euripides Project. Enter and analyze by SOB tomorrow.”

Out the window was looking like a better option by the second.

I stood.

Now or never, boy.

I smiled, turned, and I escaped.