The Thing in the Snow


 
 
 
 
 
 
 Contents
 
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 Title Page
 Dedication
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 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Also by Sean Adams
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 
 
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 Guide
 
 Cover
 Contents
 1.
 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 
 
 For Muriel
 
 
 
 
 
 1.
 
 There are only two others on the caretaking team I supervise: Gibbs and Cline, each I’d estimate about ten years my junior.
 The thing we take care of is a sprawling building called the Northern Institute, located in a remote region where the snow
 never melts. I cannot say exactly where. I fell asleep just ten minutes into the helicopter trip here several months ago,
 and when I awoke shortly before our arrival, all I could see was an endless expanse of white. The Northern Institute had,
 for a long time, been a lively research facility. Now, having been stripped of its research budget, it is merely a facility.
 When research halted and the researchers were evacuated, Kay crunched the numbers and deemed it cheaper to hire a small team
 to look after things than to make the anticipated repairs were the building simply left vacant until research could resume.
 
 
 And so here we are, the three of us, in my office, drinking coffee, preparing for Friday’s work. Outside, a harsh gust howls
 across the snow’s surface.
 
 
 “Windy out there,” I say. “Even worse last night.”
 
 Cline does not respond, but instead looks out the window.
 
 “I come from a windy place,” Gibbs says, “so I’m fairly used to wind. But yes, it was very windy.”
 
 I leave a moment for Cline to contribute to the conversation, but he continues gazing out the window, his eyes thinning to
 a squint.
 
 
 “It was whipping so intensely against the walls,” I say to Gibbs, “I barely got to sleep.”
 
 Gibbs’s grip on her coffee mug tightens just slightly. “If you’re too tired, and need the rest, I’d be happy to oversee things.
 For the day, at least.”
 
 
 “That won’t be necessary,” I say. “I’m not tired.”
 
 “But you said you barely slept.”
 
 “I said I barely got to sleep,” I say. “Once I did, I slept quite well.” Which is not true. I slept terribly, but I will not admit as much, definitely
 not to Gibbs.
 
 
 Something to know: It is not required that I, as supervisor, make my office available for coffee and light socialization each weekday morning before work begins. This I do of my own volition, in the spirit of generosity. But Gibbs and Cline don’t seem to realize this. Perhaps, if I’d wanted recognition, I should not have opened my office for coffee and light socialization on our first day here. Perhaps I should’ve waited a week or two and then said, “Hey, how about I open my office each morning for some coffee and light socialization?” Or maybe just “Hey, how about I open my office each morning for some coffee?” as the outright mention of light socialization might create an atmosphere that is neither light nor particularly social. At any rate, whether I made overt my desire for there to be light socialization is immaterial. The point is, had I waited, the other two might have known a world without coffee and light socialization to look forward to each morning, and then they might see my commitment to going above and beyond and appreciate me more. But I do not feel appreciated. I feel taken for granted and often disrespected, and also powerless to correct matters, as voicing one’s desire to be respected and not to be taken for granted is much like voicing one’s desire for light socialization—antithetical to achieving the stated goal. 
 
 This is the burden under which I must supervise, a burden I am sure Gibbs could not handle, though she thinks she could. She
 has never stated as much, only inquired about potential for advancement, but given that our ranks here