Page 15 of Tempting Frey
I am writing regarding the so-called “fiber optic installation” project currently turning Maple Street into a dust bowl and obstacle course. The constant banging, grinding, and beeping, starting as early as 7:03 a.m. (yes, I checked), is intolerable. Mywindows are coated in a layer of dust on the inside. How is that even possible?
Furthermore, the workers seem to believe “temporary access” means jumping trenches to get to my mailbox. Yesterday, I stepped into a pit of orange mud right in front of my door. My shoes are ruined, and I’m attaching the receipt for a refund. Additionally, the cones and tape have been arranged by someone with no understanding of geometry or common sense. The Work Area sign is hidden inside a bush. If this is progress, I’d rather go back to dial-up.
I expect the mayor and the Beauville public works director to take immediate action and put an end to this nonsense.
Sincerely
Edward Limbaum
“Who’s Edward Limbaum?” I asked. The letter was complete garbage, but who did it come from and why? I knew almost everyone in Beauville, but that name didn’t ring a bell. And why were so many humans suddenly writing us complaintson paper? What was wrong with an old-fashioned email?
“He bought a cottage on Maple Street a month ago,” Chickie said. “I’ve only seen him a couple of times. A quiet mouse of an omega, big glasses, one of the remote-worker types.”
“The quiet mouse has a sharp quill,” I said.
I handed the letter to Chickie, and Oliver leaned closer to his father to read it. His scent was slowly infusing the air, and a part of me wanted to kick everyone else out so I could sniff it untainted.
Chickie shook his head. “What a pile of crap. I thought the guy looked reasonable.”
“Not long ago, everybody in town was screaming for a better internet connection,” Jesse said. “We secure a grant, find a great contractor, get things moving, and now they’re sending complaints one after another. What’s wrong with people? We told them it’s only going to take a month, tops, and we’re on schedule.”
“Shouldn’t a remote worker want better internet?” Monty asked.
Oliver took the letter in one hand and lifted the other paper, likely a similar complaint. He looked from one to the other.
“This one is anonymous,” he murmured, studying them as if they were forensic evidence.
“Most of them are,” Morris said. “But a few were signed.”
“How many have you received?” Oliver asked.
“Erm. Around twelve, I think?”
“And have you spoken to the people who signed them?”
Morris glanced at me helplessly before looking at Oliver. “Not yet. We were going to. They started coming last week, and these two arrived only this morning.”
Oliver laid the papers on the table. “Why didn’t they email us?” he muttered to himself. “Common sense says most of them should have emailed.”
“Exactly,” I said emphatically.
After flashing me a quick smile, Oliver turned to Morris. “Can I see the others?”
Morris gave me another questioning look, and I shrugged. “Sure.”
He turned toward one of the filing cabinets lining the wall and rooted around in it. Then he handed Oliver a folder.
The room was silent as Oliver paged through the letters, sometimes holding them next to each other.
My scalp prickled, and my underbelly felt weird. The air going through my nostrils felt hotter and hotter. I tried toregulate my breathing. Did Oliver’s scent really have the power to mess with my head this much, or was it just because I was afraid to freak out that I was sort of freaking out?
Then he said, “These have been written by the same person and printed out on the same printer.”
I blinked.
“What?” Morris leaned forward, his expression blank. “How?”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Monty shuffled through a few letters and let out an incredulous laugh. “You’re right. The font is different, but the ink is fading in the same place on every page. Here at the bottom left corner. Besides, this guy sure likes the words ‘dust bowl.’ It’s here and here, and in this one, too.”
