96 Hours Read Online Free PDF Page A

they’d arrived—a Gander native, apparently. She was gesturing at the clock on the wall.
    “It is?”
    “We’re an hour-and-a-half ahead of Eastern Standard Time.”
    “You are?” Apparently, I’m so tired I can’t form a sentence longer than two words.
    “Yep. People always have a hard time wrapping their brains around it. We’re actually the only area of the world in this time zone.”
    “That’s weird.”
    The woman laughed, a hearty, deep laugh that made Erica smile despite her weariness. “My name’s Corinne.”
    “Erica.” She shook the proffered hand. They spoke quietly, since a good percentage of the people in the building were sleeping fitfully.
    “Is there anything you need, Erica? Anything I can get for you?”
    Erica looked around the lobby area, where rows of boxes and plastic containers held any kind of toiletry imaginable, along with donated clothing, linens, and food. How about my suitcase from the plane? Can you get me that? No longer concerned about smearing her mascara, she rubbed hard at her eye, her eyelid feeling like low-grit sandpaper. “No, I think everything I need is right here. I’m just going to go try to wash up a bit.”
    “Well, help yourself. Towels are in the bathroom. Don’t hesitate to ask if there’s something missing, okay?”
    “Thanks, Corinne.” Erica barely stifled a yawn as she took her leave.
    “And try to get some rest.”
    Under her breath, Erica muttered, “Yeah, fat chance of that happening.” In a huge room with more than a hundred strangers? On a cot? In her suit? Probably not. Snatching up trial size packages of toothpaste, soap, lotion, and a toothbrush, she slipped into the ladies’ room, relieved to find she had it to herself and knowing that wouldn’t last long. Corinne wasn’t kidding; there was a large pile of clean, neatly folded towels on the counter, used ones tossed into a couple of laundry baskets on the opposite wall. Seeing the variety of patterns and colors, Erica realized that these must have been brought from people’s homes, collected by the local volunteers who were still making the rounds in the main part of the club, checking to see who needed what.
    Studying her face in the large mirror, she groaned. She looked like hell, her hair doing its best to escape the clip she’d so carefully fastened this morning. Dark circles outlined her eyes and what makeup wasn’t smeared was simply gone. God, what she wouldn’t give for her flannel pants, ratty T-shirt, and falling-apart slippers. And a glass of wine. And a shower. But a glass of wine first. And if only she could take off her freaking bra! She’d looked damn good that morning for her breakfast meeting—which now felt like three days ago—when she’d donned her brand-new, six-hundred-dollar suit, but now she just looked like she’d slept in it. She might as well have. Wrinkles creased the jacket in strange places. The sexy clinginess of the skirt now felt like constriction instead. Her feet, still trapped in the godforsaken pumps, hated her with a passion and if she didn’t get the pantyhose off in the next three minutes, she might very well have to kill somebody.
    A middle-aged woman entered the bathroom, followed closely by a college-age girl. Both looked utterly exhausted, each smiling weakly at her reflection in the mirror.
    When she finally exited the bathroom, she carried her jacket and pumps and tossed the stockings right into the nearest trash can. Her blouse was untucked from the skirt and her hair was hanging loose; she scratched at her scalp and almost purred. She knew it probably looked awful, but she didn’t care. Padding along in her bare feet, a plastic bin caught her eye and she nearly wept with joy.
    Flip-flops.
    “Oh, thank god,” she whispered, grabbing a pair of red ones marked with her size, separating them, and slipping them on. They were less than quiet and she tried to stifle their cheerful slapping, but she was so relieved to not be barefoot