7: Harriet.

I take my usual route to work, stopping at my usual bakery for coffee. But it's not a typical morning because I didn't see him. I'm restless and everything is moving in a sluggish motion, voices and car engines ringing in my ears, like I'm trapped in a fun house. I'm going through Locke withdrawals, aren't I? Yes, that's what this is. And it's twice as intense because I've touched him now. Spent time with him. I didn't get my daily dose.

Didn't—

I stop short when I walk into my office.

Locke is...here? Or more likely, my mind is playing tricks on me.

He can't really be sitting in our client reception area, holding a bouquet of flowers, his mouth moving, as if he's silently rehearing a speech. What is happening?

I try to fill my lungs with oxygen, but I can only manage a gasping half-breath. "Locke?"

He looks up at me abruptly, dropping the bouquet. And when he bends down to retrieve it, muttering under his breath, his knee bashes into the coffee table.

His wince of discomfort causes d