December 7
It was Monday, and people across America, and possibly around the world, were forcing themselves to get out of bed and start another workweek. Rosalind, one of those rare souls who actually liked Mondays, was up and dressed by seven, even though she didn't have to be in her office until nine.
The radio announcer reminded New Yorkers that it was Pearl Harbor Day and followed up his announcement with a sound bite of Franklin Roosevelt's famous "December 7, 1941, Day of Infamy" declaration.
Since she had time for breakfast, Rosalind made herself a piece of rye toast with butter—damn the cholesterol!—and poured a glass of orange juice. Then she collected the trash from all the rooms and placed it in a large Hefty sack.
While she was buttoning her coat, she remembered the advent calendar. No use keeping it if the rest of the drawers didn't open. She took it down from the fireplace mantel and stuck it inside the Hefty bag. Then she put the trash on the curb for pickup.
The workday was similar to thousands of other days she'd spent at the office. A good deal of her time was devoted to talking to authors over the telephone, while comparatively little was devoted to actually editing their work. At five o'clock she packed an unread David Knight manuscript into her briefcase—she would begin reading it after dinner—and headed home.
When she got off the bus, Rosalind was surprised to find the advent calendar sitting on the steps outside the main entrance to her building.
The garbage men must have thought someone threw it out by mistake.
She brought it back inside, planning on throwing it out again on the day of the next garbage pickup, but as she placed it on the hall table, she noticed that the drawer marked with the number seven was slightly ajar.
That's funny, she thought, last night I couldn't even pry it open with a screwdriver.
When she opened the drawer and reached inside, she found a small fur stole, in a size perfect for a Barbie doll.
If seven opens, maybe the others will, too.
But such was not the case.
