Cheswick awoke in a panic, cursing himself.
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He could feel in his neck and shoulders he had been insensible far longer than he’d scheduled. Last night he’d been exhausted and heedless and had forgotten to set an alarm.
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Time wasted, time wasted!—but how much time?
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A glance at his watch informed him that, by extraordinary coincidence, it was once again nine-thirty, but absent a window on the basement level, he couldn’t tell if it was morning or night.
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Had he somehow slept all the day through? No—this was the cotton-ball notion of someone who has slept too long and woken too fast.
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Morning, he realized, it has to be morning. A fellow doesn’t sleep twenty hours.
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Standing, he discovered he was hungry again, with no sandwich remaining in his backpack
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Ah! Cheswick grimaced. Sunday morning already. He’d have to waste an hour grabbing a bite for breakfast, and then no more than eight hours, at best, before he’d be expected at home.
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He could call, of course; claim some delay, some inconvenience: the boss unreasonable, the client demanding.
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But that card had been played so many times. Suspicion was leaking into his marriage.
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Suddenly, Cheswick was run over by a truck.
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