When Totems Fall Read Free Page B

Printmakers Union hosted atop the Space Needle. The tux shop took down the wrong measurements and Dalton stayed glued to his seat the entire evening, fearing something might burst or break at the slightest awkward motion. As former Army, three full-dress uniforms hung pressed and bagged in his bedroom closet. Though they still fit decently, he couldn't imagine a scenario in which he would put one on again.
     
    Three more steps and he arrived, unlocking the door and sliding inside. With the seat adjusted into an acceptable position, Zeb engaged the ignition. Not even allowing thirty seconds for it to warm up, he popped the handbrake, signaled, and entered the already heavy morning traffic flow.
    Six stoplights later, it glared at him.
    Crap. Really?
    He tapped the plastic cover. Maybe the needle was stuck. Nope, the temperature gauge on his 2001 Kia Sorrento was not happy. Last Tuesday Dalton had spied some coolant puddling on his garage floor as he headed out for work. At the time he intended to actually do something about it. Now, dead-still among the throng of commuters, he knew he shouldn't have let that one slide.
    Zeb was brilliant, this much was true. He could also be a bit lazy at times.
    A light mist began falling as a few lonely clouds scampered across an otherwise clear blue sky. In response, Zeb reached over to the steering column and turned the wipers on intermittent. As the volume of water falling from the sky didn't yet call for vigorous action from the worn out blades, the half measure only made matters worse. Far from a cleansing act, the accumulation of road grime and bug remains instead spread in an ever-widening, obstructing pattern across the windshield.
    Head out the window, stretching forward, he checked the hood of the car.
    Okay, no steam yet, but the clock continued to run, and not in his favor.
    All those years in service of his country had drilled many fine traits into Dalton. Good habits, virtues, rhythms. Of these, punctuality topped the list. If the phrase went something like "five minutes early is already late", Zeb lived and breathed early. So today the prospect of the numbers 8:01 as the "in" on his time card ate away at his gut, churning even more in his already unbalanced state of being.
    Excuses? There were no excuses for showing up after the bell had rung.
    Ever.
    Zeb ducked his head out once more. The solid red glow of taillights mocked any small hope he still held of getting in on schedule. Time for an alternate route.
     
    The cars proceeded forward at a snail's pace. Or, for Seattleites, more like a slug's pace, which is both slower and messier. The rain had stopped for now as the small system cleared over and past the roadway, heading off into the foothills.
    Up ahead, past the wide frame of an auto-carrier, Zeb could see the next cross street nearing, only a quarter mile up the road. Once there, Dalton took the turn and followed a curve to the right for the next few minutes before braking at a four-way sto p.
    Big mistake.
    Dalton held ultra-detailed images of the city in his prodigious memory banks. Not these streets. They were a blank page. One big, dark spot on the map of his mind. Normally he would have pulled up the GPS app on his phone, type in the address of the shop and boom, he'd be in the clear and at his desk in time for another cup of coffee and whatever remained of the goods his boss brought in from his family's Swedish bakery in Ballard. At the moment, though, this usually helpful feature wasn't working. A week ago Zeb, uber bored at home, had decided that jailbreaking his phone might be fun. Stripping down and then reprogramming the OS himself, he had succeeded only partially, as right now the call and clock functions were the only things working on his state of the art phone.
    So, with no idea where he was, Zeb played the odds that if he only kept moving, turning right—onto the next main road, he reasoned—he would eventually end up in a central, more recognized