The City.
Mike gets a late-night visit (if one can tell time at the end of the universe) that Sallie expects to be away from the bar for the following three days Shadow-time to take care of some business for the ranch. Mike says he'll keep the light on or some such nonsense - he's got enough going on at the moment that he's not likely to need to leave the bar right this second.
Whenever Sallie has to travel to the City, she always takes one day for travel going in and one going out, plus whatever time she has to spend there for official business. The morning's business itself brings Sallie leaving the bed-and-breakfast Skouris found for her in a pressed pantsuit that feels too tight and too...not her. She arrives at the bank a half-hour early so Sallie ducks into a nearby bookstore to purchase a book on bioluminescent bodies of water for Charlie to kill time.
"I'd hate to see you break up your land like this, Mrs. Reynolds," the bank manager offered in Sallie is sure what was meant to be a sympathetic or endearing tone. He is out of practice with the sentiment and it makes Sallie sit up straighter. "That's not what I'm doing," she says. "Sellin' off a bit of outskirts what I don't need - " or can't keep up with anyway, " - puts money back into property I've got going strong still."
The manager looks highly disinterested in her explanations, and the rest of the bill of sale on five prime acres of real estate takes half an hour to process. She won't miss it, Sallie tells herself. She's a good liar.
Lunch is a burrito from a corner shop; the meat is dry and Sallie's fingers itch to suggest a few rubs to intensify the flavor of the meat. The impulse is not enough for Sallie's fingers to force themselves into a fist even if they wanted to. They drum on the countertop instead until the doctor's office opens. Always early to everything, Sallie thinks to herself. It doesn't sound complimentary even in her head.
She is made to wait in the rows of sterile chairs in an antechamber to the surgery wing for a solid forty-five minutes until the doctor comes out to see her and bows formally.
Rheumatoid arthritis, which is a pair of words Sallie's gotten used to by now. Pill regimen stops the tough bits of it in the newcomer spots - hips and ankles, but wrists - it all started in the right one - are too far gone at this point, and so she gets to learn about something called wrist arthroplasty now too. The procedure gets scheduled for a hospital in a western district in two weeks and Sallie schools her expression to silent comprehension throughout a heavy, droning explanation of recovery time and limitations on activity which will now become part of her life.
She'll have to tell her staff.
She'll have to tell Mike.
(In the back of her mind, Sallie figures she'll have to tell Malcolm, but that seems to be the hardest horse to ride at the moment.)
Sallie hands over the money order from the bank made out that morning to the receptionist on her way out to pay the deposit on the surgery.
"This won't be so bad at all, Mrs. Reynolds," the receptionist offers in a wheezy kind of coddling tone. "I've seen folks come in here on walkers and the like with this stuff. We do these things all the time."
"Just so long as it works," Sallie replies sedately, and she wonders if she will still be able to pour flour with a steady hand after it's all over.
Whenever Sallie has to travel to the City, she always takes one day for travel going in and one going out, plus whatever time she has to spend there for official business. The morning's business itself brings Sallie leaving the bed-and-breakfast Skouris found for her in a pressed pantsuit that feels too tight and too...not her. She arrives at the bank a half-hour early so Sallie ducks into a nearby bookstore to purchase a book on bioluminescent bodies of water for Charlie to kill time.
"I'd hate to see you break up your land like this, Mrs. Reynolds," the bank manager offered in Sallie is sure what was meant to be a sympathetic or endearing tone. He is out of practice with the sentiment and it makes Sallie sit up straighter. "That's not what I'm doing," she says. "Sellin' off a bit of outskirts what I don't need - " or can't keep up with anyway, " - puts money back into property I've got going strong still."
The manager looks highly disinterested in her explanations, and the rest of the bill of sale on five prime acres of real estate takes half an hour to process. She won't miss it, Sallie tells herself. She's a good liar.
Lunch is a burrito from a corner shop; the meat is dry and Sallie's fingers itch to suggest a few rubs to intensify the flavor of the meat. The impulse is not enough for Sallie's fingers to force themselves into a fist even if they wanted to. They drum on the countertop instead until the doctor's office opens. Always early to everything, Sallie thinks to herself. It doesn't sound complimentary even in her head.
She is made to wait in the rows of sterile chairs in an antechamber to the surgery wing for a solid forty-five minutes until the doctor comes out to see her and bows formally.
Rheumatoid arthritis, which is a pair of words Sallie's gotten used to by now. Pill regimen stops the tough bits of it in the newcomer spots - hips and ankles, but wrists - it all started in the right one - are too far gone at this point, and so she gets to learn about something called wrist arthroplasty now too. The procedure gets scheduled for a hospital in a western district in two weeks and Sallie schools her expression to silent comprehension throughout a heavy, droning explanation of recovery time and limitations on activity which will now become part of her life.
She'll have to tell her staff.
She'll have to tell Mike.
(In the back of her mind, Sallie figures she'll have to tell Malcolm, but that seems to be the hardest horse to ride at the moment.)
Sallie hands over the money order from the bank made out that morning to the receptionist on her way out to pay the deposit on the surgery.
"This won't be so bad at all, Mrs. Reynolds," the receptionist offers in a wheezy kind of coddling tone. "I've seen folks come in here on walkers and the like with this stuff. We do these things all the time."
"Just so long as it works," Sallie replies sedately, and she wonders if she will still be able to pour flour with a steady hand after it's all over.