pain. Her throat was parched, and she couldnât imagine trying to swallow any more pills without something to drink.
The maintenance closet was near the living quarters. Reaching it, Marion tried the door handle. It was locked.
âNoâ¦no,â she said aloud, pushing on the handle again.
The door wouldnât open.
She shoved the handle down harder, but it didnât budge. She kicked the door, then leaned a shoulder into it. The jarring sensation caused sudden light-headedness.
Nothing. It wouldnât give. She wanted to put her head on the floor and close her eyes.
She tried to remember whether the room had been locked the other times sheâd come to get supplies. She didnât think so. She remembered a conversation between Eileen and Eugene Lee about Andrew Bonn taking most of the extra toilet paper rolls back to his bunk only a couple of days ago.
Marion hadnât paid much attention. They must have decided to lock up the supplies. She had no idea where she should look for the key. Perhaps Robert Eaton, the team leader, kept it.
She leaned against the door. Her heart was racing, and the light spilling from the penlight in her hand was shaking. Her body trembled. Her breath was choppy. She wondered if these were signs of a panic attack.
She put her back against the door and leaned over, putting her forehead between her knees. She tried to take deep breaths. She had to think of something else. Somewhere else. Anyplace but here. She remembered reading in a yoga book about the positive influence of maintaining oneâs calm. She even recalled the line beneath an ancient Mogul miniature depicting a man looking into a stream from a bridge. Only when the water is still can you see through it .
Marion wished sheâd read more. She chided herself for not taking a real yoga class. Serenity was a distant concept for her. She was a busy woman. She overbooked her schedule. She was proud of her ability to multitask. Coming down here and working as an assistant to eight scientists was part of it. Dr. Lee knew she was one of very few research assistants at UC Davis capable of doing the job.
Marion tried to empty her mind of this place, of theother people sheâd been working with. She focused on her breathing. But it wasnât enough. She tried to remember a saying sheâd stumbled on while searching online for something completely different. It was one of the Dalai Lamaâs meditation techniques. Something about breathing out the bad, breathing in the good, and holding it while the healing properties spread throughout the body. Breathing out, breathing in, holding. Breathing out, breathing inâ¦and then suddenly, she was thinking of Mark Shaw.
They were so different, the two of them. She knew it from the moment he sat down on the floor next to her at the airport. She hadnât been very nice to him, arguing her points on oil, on military recruitment, even her disenchantment with the system of justice in America today. Sheâd probably come across more strongly than she really felt about all of those things, but by then heâd told her that he was a cop, and Marion was probably a little tired of sitting around in the airport.
He explained to her about the world heâd seen in Iraq. The people, the tribal feuds, the sectarian violence. He told her about people who had forgotten what living peacefully was about. He knew his history. He told her about the region and not once did he try to paint a rosy picture of any of it. There were good people, and there were those who intended to profit from the misfortunes of others. It was obvious on every level and on every side of the conflict. The complexity of human nature was what set people apartâ¦not ethnicity or nationality.
Marionâs steam over politics had fizzled out soon enough. She found herself enjoying her time with Mark Shaw, and it didnât matter if they were talking about politics or if he was making fun of
The maintenance closet was near the living quarters. Reaching it, Marion tried the door handle. It was locked.
âNoâ¦no,â she said aloud, pushing on the handle again.
The door wouldnât open.
She shoved the handle down harder, but it didnât budge. She kicked the door, then leaned a shoulder into it. The jarring sensation caused sudden light-headedness.
Nothing. It wouldnât give. She wanted to put her head on the floor and close her eyes.
She tried to remember whether the room had been locked the other times sheâd come to get supplies. She didnât think so. She remembered a conversation between Eileen and Eugene Lee about Andrew Bonn taking most of the extra toilet paper rolls back to his bunk only a couple of days ago.
Marion hadnât paid much attention. They must have decided to lock up the supplies. She had no idea where she should look for the key. Perhaps Robert Eaton, the team leader, kept it.
She leaned against the door. Her heart was racing, and the light spilling from the penlight in her hand was shaking. Her body trembled. Her breath was choppy. She wondered if these were signs of a panic attack.
She put her back against the door and leaned over, putting her forehead between her knees. She tried to take deep breaths. She had to think of something else. Somewhere else. Anyplace but here. She remembered reading in a yoga book about the positive influence of maintaining oneâs calm. She even recalled the line beneath an ancient Mogul miniature depicting a man looking into a stream from a bridge. Only when the water is still can you see through it .
Marion wished sheâd read more. She chided herself for not taking a real yoga class. Serenity was a distant concept for her. She was a busy woman. She overbooked her schedule. She was proud of her ability to multitask. Coming down here and working as an assistant to eight scientists was part of it. Dr. Lee knew she was one of very few research assistants at UC Davis capable of doing the job.
Marion tried to empty her mind of this place, of theother people sheâd been working with. She focused on her breathing. But it wasnât enough. She tried to remember a saying sheâd stumbled on while searching online for something completely different. It was one of the Dalai Lamaâs meditation techniques. Something about breathing out the bad, breathing in the good, and holding it while the healing properties spread throughout the body. Breathing out, breathing in, holding. Breathing out, breathing inâ¦and then suddenly, she was thinking of Mark Shaw.
They were so different, the two of them. She knew it from the moment he sat down on the floor next to her at the airport. She hadnât been very nice to him, arguing her points on oil, on military recruitment, even her disenchantment with the system of justice in America today. Sheâd probably come across more strongly than she really felt about all of those things, but by then heâd told her that he was a cop, and Marion was probably a little tired of sitting around in the airport.
He explained to her about the world heâd seen in Iraq. The people, the tribal feuds, the sectarian violence. He told her about people who had forgotten what living peacefully was about. He knew his history. He told her about the region and not once did he try to paint a rosy picture of any of it. There were good people, and there were those who intended to profit from the misfortunes of others. It was obvious on every level and on every side of the conflict. The complexity of human nature was what set people apartâ¦not ethnicity or nationality.
Marionâs steam over politics had fizzled out soon enough. She found herself enjoying her time with Mark Shaw, and it didnât matter if they were talking about politics or if he was making fun of
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