You're already sick of the walk up to Gorsky Manor. You can't decide if you want a phone or a bike more as you trudge through the woods once again to avoid the busy streets.
You get there by 10 AM. The nurse on duty tells you that Mr. Veiss won't be in until after noon, so you devote a few hours to your job. There are walkways to salt, snow to knock off the roof, and a cage to install around a thermostat so the guests stop fiddling with it. You're just putting the cage on when Mr. Veiss appears, skulking like a pervert with warrants down the dirty, carpeted hallway.
You explain what you need and his pale eyes narrow, like you're trying to trick him, but he signs what you've written without a word. Then he just stares at you as you put your tools away and get out of there.
The days are getting lighter, but the sky is slate gray, the air bitter, when you reach the address Mr. Goultier gave you. As if by magic, one step takes you from a truck-choked commercial avenue into the snowy woods where a decaying gambrel squats among skeletal black trees. In summer, the foliage will hide it completely from the commercial street in one direction and the farmlands in the other. Only the brand-new pickup idling in the driveway hints that the cottage is something other than a ruin.
The truck door bangs open and a short, fat man jumps out: Mr. Goultier.
"Hey! Hey, you! Yeah, you, ugly! Are you Elton's friend?"
"I'm his fiancé. We're looking for a honeymoon hovel, and this looks perfect."
I sigh. "Yes. I am Elton's ugly friend."
I'm not stooping to this man's level. (That's not a short joke.) I just hand him my proof of employment.
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