Doug went back inside and turned off the television. He stood for a moment in the middle of the living room, thinking. There were a few things he had to take care of this morning, some correspondence he’d let slide through these last two weeks of finals and graduation, and he figured he’d better get them out of the way before settling down to some serious non-work. He was going to give himself a week off before starting his big project for the summer: the storage shed. It had been three years now since he’d first promised Trish he’d build a storage shed in the back yard to house their tools and firewood and extraneous garbage, and though each June he’d sworn that he was going to build the shed, somehow he had never actually gotten around to it. This year, however, he had finally broken down and bought a prefab construction kit. This year, he was going to do it. He figured he’d spend this week reading, lounging about, and just relaxing. Knowing his ineptitude with tools and his incompatibility with manual labor, the storage shed, which theoretically should be a one- or two-week project, would probably take all summer, and he wanted to make sure he enjoyed at least part of his vacation.

He walked through the kitchen and down the short hall to the bedroom. His desk was on the other side of the brass bed, inconveniently close to the closet. A stack of books and papers sat next to the dusty uncovered typewriter, and he pushed everything aside as he sat down on the hard metal ice-cream chair he used in lieu of the wooden swivel seat he’d originally wanted. He quickly glanced through the pile. Bills. Bills. More bills. A letter from an ex-student who’d joined the army.

His application for the grant.

He dropped everything else on the desk and held up the yellow application form, staring dumbly at it. The application was for a federal program that offered teachers in specific fields year-long paid sabbaticals so they could conduct independent research. There was nothing he really wanted to, or needed to, research, but he desperately wanted the year off and had managed to put together a rather convincing application. He thought he’d sent it in last month, but apparently he hadn’t. He looked at the deadline date on the form.

June seventh.

Five days away.

“Shit,” he muttered. He placed the application in an envelope, addressed it, and affixed a stamp. He went back outside and walked down the porch steps.

“What is it?” Trish asked.

“My study grant. I forgot to send it.”

She grinned up at him. “Those who can, teach.”