1
IT WAS THE best of emails. It was the worst of emails. And Clover received them both within two minutes of each other.
Clover’s emotional pendulum swung from left to right so fast upon checking her computer she had to put her head down onto her desk and breathe through the light-headedness. It was in this unusually undignified position—arms on desk, head between arms, hoodie over her head—that Clover’s assistant found her.
“Um, Clo? You okay down there?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
“Are you sure you’re fine?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
“Are you sure you’re sure you’re sure?”
“Nope.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Clover sat up and looked across her desk where her seventeen-year-old assistant, Ruthie, stood looking at her, waiting for an explanation.
“Is your hair more purple than usual today?” Clover asked. “Or is it the light?”
“More purple. I recolored it last night.”
“Looks good.”
“Thanks.”
Clover put her head back down on her desk.
“Clover?”
“What?”
“Clove?”
“What?”
“Clo?”
“What is it, Ruthie?” Clover sat up again.
“You were moaning. Did you know that?”
“I was?”
“You were. And not the good kind of moaning.”
Clover narrowed her eyes at Ruthie.
“What would you know about the good kind of moaning?” Clover asked.
“Nothing. I know nothing about good moaning. That’s what we tell Pops, anyway. Right?”
“Right. Pops. Your father. Oh, God. My father...”
Once more her head hit her desk and this time it wasn’t coming back up until the world had ended, thus solving all of Clover’s problems.