SANDBOX

MARCH - SUNDAY EVENING

The residents of this peaceful town will know the meaning of Hell on Earth soon enough. For now, let them live in ignorant peace.

—Unknown, circa 1976

MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA

It was ten o'clock in the evening, the boys were in bed, and his wife was streaming a show online—some kind of crime drama in which the suspect always confesses at the end of each episode.

William clacked away at the keyboard, he needed to finish his final report pronto. The deadline was last Friday; however, he had asked for an extension—which was granted—but he knew his bonus would suffer greatly each day he went beyond the contracted deadline.

The printouts lay in various piles all over his desk. A cup half-filled with day old coffee left a nice ring on the top of one stack. Like his desk, William's mind was cluttered with work. He had a hard time concentrating; the bonus, the deadline, his kid's college fund—which might seem far away but would rear its ugly head soon enough—had him constantly nerve-wracked.

The window to his left was open, which allowed a chilly breeze to waft its way in, cooling the room to a temperature he much preferred. He kept the office door closed to keep the cool air trapped inside the room, and to act as a deterrent for would-be attention seekers from his household.

One of the neighbor's dogs barked incessantly. William tried ignoring it at first, hoping the blasted thing would eventually do its business and go back inside, but that was almost an hour ago. He couldn't take it any longer, cold air be damned. He closed the window, latched it, then drew the curtains. There, you little shit, happy now?

It took William about fifteen minutes to refocus on what he was doing. Eventually, he began clacking away again, unhappy with the rising temperature in his little office but preferable to the barking dog next door. He read and re-read his sentences and paragraphs to ensure accuracy in his work, checking for grammar and the like. Another fifteen minutes passed by before he realized the dog had stopped barking. Of course, he thought. As soon as I close the damned window.

His neck was sore from being hunched over the desk and staring at the computer monitor for several hours at a time, but he pressed on. He pushed through the pain as if his life depended on it—there were moments he thought maybe it might.

The steady tap-tap-tap of the keyboard keys were the only sounds, besides the occasional pause as William ruffled through papers to check his work. He grabbed the coffee mug next to the monitor and took a sip. He spat it back into the mug. Ugh, cold, he thought, gagging.

He reached over to place the mug back on the table while keeping his eyes on the screen. The mug toppled over and spilled onto the desk, his papers quickly sopping most of it up. "Son of a bitch!" he yelled, looking around for something to clean up the mess with. "Aw, fuck it," he took off his shirt and used it as a rag.

There was a light knock at the door, his wife poked her head in, "You okay in here, Willy?" she asked. He hated when she called him Willy.

"Everything's fine, Elsie" he spat. Elsie apologized for interrupting him and closed the door. William threw the shirt in the corner and sat back down. He managed to separate the wet papers and lay them out on the carpet, less worried about stains than he was the deadline.