THE EIGHTY-EIGHTH PAGE

I had no idea how long it would take to control the virus. In the first few hours of infection, I’m certain that in one silly act after another, hundred or perhaps thousands, of computers in the extended family of my publisher would be made sick, sick, sick. I’d certainly not open any correspondence from then in the new few weeks.

The hapless publicist probably did not know he was the one who let the dog from hell into his system. Perhaps in time, “cerberusdawg” might come up in conversation between him and my oblivious editor. It might lead to a confused, and potentially, embarrassing dialogue. And then a kind of truth might begin to emerge. We can only pray.

I could not help but try to involve my editor in every step of the crusade on behalf of my wounded novel.

If the “cerberusdawg” conversation developed along the lines I desired, he might begin to suspect something was rotten outside Denmark. I could do more. Perhaps a souvenir for my editor?

I purchased a very fine survival knife, not unlike the hunting tool employed by the huntsman on the buck’s throat in the aforementioned “Snow White.” I didn’t bother to insure it. Clean of fingerprints and identifying marks, the gift from Bangor may have given thoughtful pause to a certain assistant when she opened the “gift” addressed to her boss.