Draven Michaels yelled out to the assembled lunch crowd, all 17 of the day shift, “Are they really talking about shutting us down?”

“We’re an older facility,” came Shawn’s response.

“Then we’ve already paid back the return on investment. We’re pure profit now,” said one of the greenhouse technicians.

Draven shook his head. “We’re going obsolete in all regards.”

“Can’t they redevelop this as industrial -?”

“No exhaust points for pollutants.”

The Devil looked a lot like David Letterman.

Lisa wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting—a red-skinned beast with horns and cloven hooves, a debonair gentleman with charming eyes and a black mustache—but this tall gangly man with his gap-toothed smile and mop of light curly hair seemed an unlikely Satan. Then again, when one was the Prince of Darkness, perhaps it was best not to advertise.

When the doorbell rang at 7:30 on a Saturday morning, I knew immediately who it was. I cursed, fumbled into my frilly bathrobe, and stumbled to the door where Tino sat, wiggling his entire backside in excitement. He gave a deep, stifled bark and a little gurgle of impatience.

"Emily," I said, pushing Tino out of the way and opening the door.

I usually enjoyed walking through the University in the early spring, especially during a warm, weekend dusk. I liked the sight of brown ivy starting to green. I liked the annual novelty of watching the sun set later and later. The true novelty, though, was being at a place in life where I'd even notice those things. Not too long ago, all I'd notice were the building signs, with the names of weathered, century-old stone buildings written in an anemic twenty-first century font. It struck me as hypocritical, or at the very least, tacky.