Before her probable demise...
I lay back in the chair, crossing my legs at the ankles and stare up at the ceiling, one hand holding my phone, the other holding my head up.
Talking to your boss is something most people dread. Unless of course you're a suck up or you're that one person sleeping with them in your free time.
The conversations really shouldn't last more than fifteen minutes tops. Unless you're getting fired. Then the conversation would be much, much shorter.
Of course, then there's the length of conversations you'd have with your parents. Depending on the topic those could last anywhere from thirty seconds, to a few hours. It also depends on whether or not you enjoy speaking to your parents.
Putting all this information into account, the conversation between R-sorry-Agent Stevenson, and his father, the FBI director, will take approximately twenty-six minutes.
Given that I've already been sitting in the world's most uncomfortable chair for 983 seconds, I've still got 577 seconds left till the doors finally open and I'm clued in to whatever the hell's going to happen.
I go back to staring at the ceiling, trying to keep my mind from drifting too much.
One large rectangular light spaced out every four feet on the ceiling. Each light exactly two feet from either end of the hallway.
One blue tile mixed in with the many white ones. One blue tile per every three rows, and each time the blue tile is in a different spot in those rows. The pattern is not hard to see...for someone's who looking.
I drum my fingers up and down the length of the chair arm, tapping to a song in my head as I count.
My finger slides across the screen on my phone as I double check everything for what feels like the fiftieth time today. My eyes scan over the documents. The Driver's license, the birth certificate, the school reports, and practically everything else that proves a person really does exist.
But Nicky Harrison does not exist..at least she didn't till about an hour ago when I was really bored.
Nicky Harrison. Born in the US. College graduate, straight-A student, works at a computer programming company, comes from a very loving family, only child, and has no criminal record what-so-ever. A perfectly model citizen.
At least that's what the FBI will believe when they do a background check on me and Nicky Harrison's model life I made up in ten minutes comes up. No way in hell I'd give them my real name. I can only imagine what would come up.
It'd probably look something like this: Nicolette Moore, dropped out of high school sophomore year to go to college instead. Straight A's part would stay the same, adopted into a loving but at times somewhat dysfunctional family and was not born in the US. Family was put into witness protection after her father saw something he shouldn't of.
After trying to fix it and only succeeding in making things much worse, Nicolette Moore disappeared and was later found out to have been working for the same people who were trying to off her parents...gold star, really. Nicolette Moore's...secret activities are broadcasted all over the world. She comes and goes but no one has a face to put to the name anymore.
YOU ARE READING
I can't keep the smile off my face as I take my seat on the plane. I slide my bag under the seat and lean back. I close my eyes and let a blissful smile grace my face. He said I wouldn't be able to run. As if. I'm vaguely aware of someone taking the...