His face is stony. For a moment Pete has a vision of an alternate universe where Alex is a stand-up comedian’s straight man, or maybe earns his crust as one-half of a Proclaimers tribute band. Then the ineluctable truth begins to sink in. “You don’t catch fire if exposed to garlic or holy water by any chance? Crosses or other religious symbols?” Alex shakes his head. (In the background, Andy stands and begins to slither doorwards.) “Jolly good. We don’t have much to do with that stuff in the C of E anyway,” he adds, “but it’d be kind of embarrassing to share an office with someone with a garlic bread allergy.” He looks at Andy. “Will you please stop that? I know what you’re trying to do, and so does Alex.” To his relief Alex nods rapidly. “I’m sure this young man—”

“I’m twenty-four!”

“This young man has had a very trying few weeks, and you’re not helping by making him wonder if you’re using him as a crash test dummy for the departmental Dr. Van Helsing. Here’s the deal, Alex: I’m in your shoes, just a month further down the line and I got roped into this, this circus because I can read Aramaic and a, an acquaintance needed a scriptural translation checking in a hurry. At least you’re here for a reason, at least I hope you’re here for a reason, and it’s probably a better one than mine. So Andy here”—at this point the accused jerks and adopts a guiltily sycophantic expression—“wants to off-load you on me. And, you know what? That’s fine. I promise not to try to hammer a stake through your heart or set you on fire, as long as you promise not to rip my throat out. Okay? We in the twenty-first century have this marvelous technical innovation, it’s called civilization, and it means we don’t have to make promises like that to everyone we meet because we can usually take it for granted. So, um”—Pete stands up, then offers his right hand—“welcome to my office. I’ve got this project that you might be able to help me with. Tell me”—Andy finally vanishes from his office like the memory of a foul smell, as Alex hesitantly takes Pete’s hand and shakes it limply—“what, if anything, do you know about search engine optimization?”

• • •

KARMA’S A BITCH.

No, let me rephrase that:

Karma is your vengeful bunny-boiler ex, lurking in your darkened front hallway wearing an ice-hockey mask and carrying a baseball bat inscribed with BET YOU DIDN’T SEE THIS COMING.

(And, to over-stretch the metaphor, Karma intends to whack you upside the head so hard your cranium lands in the bleachers, but the hockey mask has slipped and she usually ends up hitting your blind next-door neighbor’s guide dog by mistake, nine times out of ten, so that when the tenth strike lands true you really don’t see it coming.)

But, as usual, I digress.