Penelope

— Garrison Titmouse.

— What?

— I’m Garrison Titmouse, here to see David Swift.

— Ah! Okay, take a seat Gary, I’ll see if he’s available.

— Oh, I have an appointment. An interview. And it’s Garrison.

— What?

— Garrison. My name. Not Gary.

— Oh, I much prefer Gary. Less formal.

— Well, no, actually it’s always been Garrison.

— Suit yourself! Take a seat and I’ll tell . . . um . . .

— David Swift?

— I’ll tell Dave you’re here. Glass of wine?

— What?

— Only joking! Tea or coffee?

— Just water thanks.

She points at the cooler.

— Help yourself. Garrison.

— Thanks.

— Penny.

— What?

— Penny. My name.

— Oh. Thanks, Penny.

She makes the call, then watches him as he paces, plastic cup in hand.

— You should relax, you know. Sam says stress causes cancer.

— Sam?

— Yep.

He waits a moment, but Sam’s identity seems destined to remain obscure.

— Well . . . thanks for the advice.

— You’re welcome, it’s free!

Whereupon she throws her head back and, one would have to say, literally howls. It is unmistakably a laugh, but it seems better suited to summoning wolves. Garrison imagines a pack of lupine receptionists in a moonlit glade.

Curious about this strange woman, he lets her compose herself, then . . .

— Dinner tonight?

— Only if I can call you Gary.