The sounds from the kitchen rose and fell like the surf on a stormy coastline. Jim kept his eyes forward, fixed on the flickering lights coming from the television. The Jags were ahead, eighty to seventy-two.

Another crash caused a muscle on the cop's face to twitch, right below his left eye. Blair was in rare form. That sounded like it was going to leave a dent. But Jim rode out the tantrum, determined to be imperturbable to his guide's emotional 'not-so-subtle' messages.

Besides, his guide's request wasn't reasonable anyway. This game determines the playoffs. That was more important than some stupid lab time reserved for a few lousy sentinel tests.

The door to the refrigerator slammed closed with more force then nessesary.

Jim slid down on the sofa. A trace of doubt beginning to gnaw at his resolve.

Was this worth an entire kitchen remodel?

The End

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