the mark
M’gann pulled her lunchbox out of the bottom-left drawer of her desk and headed to the courtyard. Somehow, it was already one o’clock. She’d been at it all day. Restacking, manning the circulation desk, and, until five minutes ago, teaching a calligraphy workshop for seniors. It was good work. Rewarding. But M’gann was exhausted. The migraines had lessened since the day she’d needed to go home early, but they were still there. She was still having trouble sleeping.
Outside, the weather was just how she liked it. Cool and overcast. She sat on the wooden bench beside the bust of Ernest Hemingway and took a few deep breaths before pulling out her salad. M’gann was just about to take a bite when she noticed with a start that she wasn’t alone. It was unusual for her psychic radar not to pick-up another person, but with the static in the city it wasn’t unheard of. Deciding not to dwell on it, she put down her fork and gave the stranger a polite nod. “I didn’t see you there,” she called. M’gann started to pick the fork back up, but changed her mind at last second and added, “It’s pretty nice out.”
