Chapt. 54

Mason cried.

It was the best shortest moment of his life. The joy he felt was incomparable so much that he slept like a baby for the first time in a week and woke up like a giant the next day. At some point that morning, the words became his password to smile when his breakfast burnt again the fourth time that week, when he hit his little toe against the bed, when the shaving blade cut him, and even when he ran out of fuel on his way to work.

"Good morning, Donovan," Michael, a new friend he made on his first day of work and a colleague he shared an office with, said.

Tall and lean was a vivid description of him. On his face was a narrow nose with a slightly curved tip, thick-rimmed lenses which slightly magnified his little eyes distantly rested above small lips. Midnight Black was his short impeccably kept curls—typical dork criteria.

"Good morning," Mason reflected, "anything new this morning?"

"Not yet. Still trying to round up with yester