December 7
It was Monday, and people across America, and possibly around the world, were forcing themselves to get out of bed and start another workweek. Rosalind, one of the rare souls who actually liked Mondays, was up and dressed by seven, even though she didn't have to be in her office until nine.
The radio announcer reminded New Yorkers that it was Pearl Harbor Day and followed up his announcement with a sound bite of Franklin Roosevelt's famous "Day of Infamy" declaration.
Because she had time for breakfast, she made rye toast with butter—damn the cholesterol!—and poured a glass of orange juice. Then she collected the trash from all the rooms and placed it in a large Hefty sack.
While she was buttoning her coat, she remembered the Advent calendar. No use keeping it if the rest of the drawers didn't open. She took it down from the fireplace mantel, stuck it inside the Hefty bag and put the trash on the curb for pickup.
The workday was similar to thousands of other days she'd spent at the office. A good deal of her time was devoted to talking to authors over the telephone, while comparatively little was devoted to editing their work. At five o'clock she packed an unread David Knight manuscript into her briefcase and headed home.
When she got off the bus, Rosalind was surprised to find the Advent calendar on the steps outside the main entrance to her building.
The garbage men must have thought I threw it out by mistake.
She brought it back inside, planning to throw it out again on the day of the next garbage pickup, but as she placed it on the hall table, she noticed that drawer Number 7 was slightly ajar.
That's funny. Last night I couldn't pry it open with a screwdriver.
When she opened the drawer and reached inside, she found a small fur stole, perfect for a Barbie doll.
If Number 7 opens, maybe the others will, too.
But such was not the case.
