Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
This fucking light. I throw my highlighter down, and it skitters across the desk and clatters between it and the wall.
The light over my desk keeps wavering, making the page under my large magnifier look like it’s underwater.
It’s so fucking dim in here, and I’ve been at it for hours.
My head is pounding, and I’ve only made it through part of what I have to do.
Buddy whines, getting up from her spot on her couch and walking over to me.
She’s blind, but she can still navigate the house really well.
I always keep everything in the same spot for her.
And let’s be honest, it’s for me too. Buddy has Progressive Retinal Atrophy, a genetic condition that’s left her blind in her old age.
I found her in the paper. I don’t normally read the paper—it’s a lot of work with a magnifying glass, and I prefer to use that energy to work.
But I always comb the section about the animal shelter, and Buddy was in the paper for weeks.
No one wanted a fully blind dog. I named her Buddy after the first seeing-eye dog because I thought it was ironic. The blind leading the blind.
I pull off my old pair of glasses. It has a similar frame to the ones that were broken, but the prescription is old, and it almost makes things worse.
This is never going to work. My head hurts so bad from squinting at the blurry, dim words that I want to hurl. I absently scratch Buddy’s head. The case I’m working on is a domestic violence case, and it’s pissing me off more than it should.
I hate these cases.
Why did I ever take this job? For the thousandth time, I think about how it won’t reverse time.
And yet, here I am.
For two days, I’ve fought the suggestion to get help. Two days of pure misery, and I don’t even get natural light for long because it’s October, and the sun goes down so fucking early.
I hem and haw about the potential of asking someone for help.
I don’t even have an office. I had an office before, but I find it’s just easier to meet clients in coffee shops or even the goddamn library and then bring the paperwork back to my place.
All of my magnifiers are here, and when I have the right glasses, it’s not that big of a deal.
When I stand up, I get dizzy.
This is not working.
“No one’s gonna apply,” I mutter, untucking my piece of gum from between my teeth and cheek, chewing in a nervous habit.
It’s a short-term position, literally only two or three weeks, just to be my fucking eyes. I refuse to ask my mom. She hates my job, and I don't want her to see the details of this case. She’s lived it once; it’s not fair to ask her to live it again.
So the next morning, I put an ad in the paper. Personal Assistant Needed for Gage and Co. Start Date: Immediately.