Draft received.
Action items:
•Expand overview of theoretical measurement research base (cite last year’s paper fromInternational Journal of Modern Physics)
•Reorder placement of theoretical equations and practical research data
•Cite Logan for new calculations requiring expansion of holometer tunnels from 30 to 40 meters for optimal results; otherwise, cite general Fermilab Quantum group
•Correct data in Table 5
See tracked changes in attachment for add’l revisions.
—Kramer
His thumb hovered over the linked document—but then Bunsen kicked again, this time striking into his kidney. He fumbled his phone. SVLAC’s email closed. A list of text threads appeared instead.
Aaron Forster hadn’t responded to his message about Martha Wells.
Well, he’d sent it after midnight. Maybe Forster hadn’t seen it yet. As he’d rationalized yesterday, a 650 area code was no guarantee that the writer was local. Forster could be in any time zone.
His disappointment at the blank space under his text was irrational.
He didn’t even know the man.
Swinging his feet to the floor now, he chucked his phone back toward the bedside table hard enough that Bunsen shied up in concern. When the retriever saw him shuffling toward the bathroom, however, he jumped down and heeled beside Ethan to the door, tail thwacking and the phone scare forgotten.
“Out,” he told Bunsen before his golden shadow could follow him to the sink.
Bunsen plopped down a half-inch from the threshold. Ethan bent to splash water on his face and wet down his hair, and brown eyes were just visible at the bottom of the mirror, eyebrows pinched in a plea. A faint, high-pitched whine fluttered Bunsen’s whiskers as he tracked Ethan back into the bedroom, but when Ethan reached for his socks, Bunsen’s tenuous restraint snapped. He began to bark and spin around after his own tail.
“I’m almost ready. Get your leash.”
Paws skidded off to the door. Metal jingling against leather, Bunsen retrieved his leash and dragged it into the kitchen, where Ethan was filling their hiking water bottles.
“It’s probably good that you can’t clip this on yourself. Or open the front door. Then you wouldn’t need me at all.” He holstered the bottles in a belt bag, attached the dog’s leash, and was towed out through the entryway to his car.
His dashboard clock only read 7:14 a.m., but pulling into the parking lot off Old Stagecoach Road that led into Edgewood Park, he found the pavement already busy with locals gearing up for a day on the trails. Hikers in family clusters slathered on sunscreen, offering snacks to children and reminding them that rattlesnakes’ vibrating tails weren’t an invitation to pet them. Couples coaxed goldendoodles and a lone French bulldog in a stroller to drink from collapsible dishes. A group of horseback riders tacked up beside a trailer. Skirting the crowds, he parked near the perimeter of the lot. Bunsen came hurtling out the back seat the instant Ethan opened the door, and pointed toward the main trailhead.
He checked his phone. Its screen was still blank.
After inserting his earbuds and deciding on Mumford & Sons over Green Day, he pocketed the device, resolving not to look at it again until they returned to the car. Then he guided Bunsen across the asphalt around tantalizing bits of dropped fruit rind and jerky.
“Come on.”
He took off at a jog onto Edgewood Trail. The first half-mile was a strenuous climb along a dirt pathway curving through an understory of native grasses and tri-leafed poison oak, but the strain was invigorating rather than unpleasant in the woodland’s cool air. He and Bunsen made their way up the hill, pausing for sniffs, attempts to eat a dead squirrel, leg-lifting, and water from their bottles. At the intersection of their path with an offshoot leading toward the center of the park, he nodded to other oncoming hikers with dogs, rather than speaking over the running rhythms of “Guiding Light.” It was easier to engineer interactions with them than with regular people.
“Are we taking Serpentine today?”
Bunsen wagged his tail against Ethan’s knees, panting with excitement.
So they wound through the thick, tawny fields of the Serpentine Trail as the sun flared hotter across the exposed grasslands and wildflowers, the dog barking at jackrabbits and birds. They split off onto Franciscan Trail to avoid the equestrian group, before meeting up again with their original Edgewood line near the parking lot. They gulped more water by the car, damp and smiling.
When Ethan scanned his phone after driving back to the condo for a shower and breakfast, he had a new message from Forster.
Forster
Sorry for not responding sooner! I’d read the first three novellas in Wells’ Murderbot Diaries series, but I apparently missed the release of Exit Strategy, Network Effect, and Fugitive Telemetry… so I downloaded and read Exit Strategy last night.
