This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Ninety Days

By Victoria S. Johnson

Who goes to a job interview with her right arm in a cast? Someone desperate; someone who’s facing eviction with nothing to fall back on. Even the cat had deserted her. Two more floors to go until she reached the law offices of Evans, Holbook, and White. It was late in the day and her stomach started gurgling on the ninth floor; the man next to her had shifted slightly away from her, as if she were contagious.

At last, the twenty-second floor. She stepped out and turned to her right as instructed, then went through the massive cherry wood doors, and suppressed her gasp of amazement. Everywhere she looked bespoke money, and lots of it. Southwestern-style decor met her deep brown eyes; the walls were painted burnished orange and buttery yellow. A life-size bronze statue of a foal stood in the center of a large reception area. The couches and chairs followed the theme in tanned leather or deep charcoal. End tables displayed beautiful lamps, while shelves here and there held kachina dolls or small decorated painted ponies. Beautifully woven Indian rugs hung in strategic places on the walls. The only thing missing were people. Where was everyone?

She looked around for the receptionist, who had told her on the phone how to find the law office and assured her it wouldn’t matter that she couldn’t use her right arm.