He’s late again.
Jacob Counterfeit III looked at the empty desk of one, Alfred Lackluster, and shook his head.
I’m the difficult one.
He’d taken Alfred in as a favorite to an old friend, but was his kindness repaid?
No.
When the boy was here, he was lucky to get anything done.
His head is always in the clouds.
He’d been patient, but that patience was growing thin.
A door banged open and Alfred rushed in, breathless.
Finally.
“Sorry, so sorry.”
He knocked over his chair as he frantically attempted to sit down.
Truly, no man ever fit his name quite so well.
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