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The first day jitters are no joke. I can hardly sit still, hardly breathe right. Part of me thinks this is all a ruse, like I'm about to be ambushed and grilled regarding the incident.

It's a paranoid notion. Guilt is a hell of a thing. Sitting in a comfortable

but too quiet waiting room, I think about the four dogs I have at home, Rosie, Gracie, Bear,

and Roxy. I hope they're doing okay without me, even though I've only been gone for a few hours.

The new dog sitter seems nice enough. She'll take care of them. I almost didn't

accept this job because of my dogs, but in the end, civic responsibility and not a little bit of

guilt won out. My khaki-clad right leg bounces on its own, a perpetual motion machine I have no

control over. The receptionist cuts her eyes at me. Again, a manicured

eyebrow raising. I give her a weak smile. She goes back to typing on her computer. A moment

later, Detective Sypes' office door opens. A man in a smart gray suit steps out. Charcoal

black tie tucked into a vest, a worn leather shoulder holster

containing a pistol visible under his open suit jacket. My sidearm is in a hip holster. I wonder

idly if shoulder holsters are required for Foundation detectives. Ever since the incident, I've been

thinking about getting one anyway. He extends a hand.

...