Confessions of a Call Center Gal

Twenty One





This week, Lightning Speed launched Security Questions, and all day long, I’ve been fielding calls from customers who either do not recall setting up their questions, or do not recall the answers to the questions that they themselves picked.

Go figure. I’m convinced that half the population suffers from acute Alzheimer’s and dementia.

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy. How can I help?”

“My name is Rajeeswari Veerakukatanarasimharajuvaripeta and these Security Questions are so annoying. I don’t remember setting them up, and now I’m locked out of my account.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that Mister, um, Venkaqruisi, err...piqua,” I fumble, “but these are questions that you at one time chose and answered.”

“I said that I did NOT set them up!” he blasts. “I SWEAR ON MY MOTHER’S GRAVE!”

“Sir, if you can answer one of your Security Questions over the phone, I can get you back online.”

“Go ahead!” he growls. “Ask me the damn question!”

“Okay. Where did you go on your first date?”

“I picked that question?” he spits haughtily.

“Yes sir, you did,” I inform him evenly.

“Shhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiit, I don’t know. My bedroom?”

I gag. Some date.

After typing in his answer, my app tells me it’s a no-go. “Sorry sir. That’s incorrect. Would you like to go to the next question?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, highly agitated at this point.

“Question number two: What is your dream occupation?”

Long pause.

“Bus driver?” he manages at last.

“Sorry sir, but that is the wrong answer. Would you like to go to the next question?”

“How can that be wrong?” he demands, huffing and puffing.

“Um, because that was not the answer you originally gave?” I say in a neutral tone.

“This is complete BULLSHIT! Next question!”

“Okay, question number three: What song did you dance to on your wedding night?”

“Which one? I’ve been married four times.”

“Sir, once again, you picked these questions. So you tell me.”

He scoffs with rage, “HOW THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW?”

I forge on, “All right, here is the last question: What was the model year of your first car?”

“Well I bought my car in 2008,” he says grumpily.

I rub my temples. “Sir, the model year refers to the year your car was built, not the year you bought it.”

“Oh! 2002 Chrysler!”

“Thank you. That was the right answer.” Phew.

I unlock his account and he’s able to get back online.

Cough. And he swore on his mother’s grave that he never set up his Security Questions. Shame on Mister whatshisname.

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed, this is Maddy,” I say listlessly. “What can I do for you today?”

“These Security Questions are driving me crazy. I need help setting them up.”

“I can help, ma’am. What seems to be the problem?”

“It’s patronizing me! It refuses to take my answers.”

“Now tell me, what are the questions you’re choosing?”

“Well, the first one is: What’s your oldest sibling’s birthday?”

“Ma’am, can you please make sure that your answer is in the right format?”

A beat. Another beat. Still no answer.

“Um, what format is it specifying?” I persist.

“It says MMDD. But I’ve entered my sister’s birthday and it won’t accept it!”

“Well, what answer did you give?”

“0581978.”

“So, is her birthday on May eighth?”

“Yes,” she concurs, flustered at this point.

“Then you need to enter 0508.”

“Oh!” she cries like it’s a revelation. “Since I have you on the line, can you please stay with me until I complete this?”

“Of course I can,” I say graciously.

“Here’s the next question that I’m choosing: What is your favorite book? And I’m typing in the Bible for my answer.”

“Um ma’am, that is pretty easy to guess. According to polls, that is what forty percent of users list as their favorite book and any hacker could easily figure that out. It would be more secure if your answer is a bit harder for someone to guess.”

“Then I won’t remember it,” she says with an aggrieved air.

I breathe out a heavy sigh. These stinking Security Questions are far from being foolproof. Some of the answers she provides could be posted on her Facebook page. Any teenager high on pot could easily access her info with just a few mouse clicks.

Eventually, she concedes. “I’ve typed in a different answer. I put down The Book of Mormon. And here is the next question I’m selecting: What is the name of the hospital in which you were born? And I am typing in Saint Jude.”

“Now that is a tricky one ma’am. Keep in mind that you need to remember exactly how you spell it. For instance, saint can be spelled St, or Saint, or St followed by a period.”

“The crap I have to remember,” she gripes. “I’ve already got over fifty passwords, and if I have to remember one more password or security question, my head will crack open!”

“I know.” My voice drips with empathy. “We’ve got so many passwords to keep track of these days.”

“You got that right. Shoot. I’ll probably be calling you again.”

I shake my head. I’m sure she will be.

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy, how can I assist?”

“My Security Questions are locked. This is frustrating, man. It used to be so much easier. Why did y’all have to go and change the dang thing?”

“I’m sorry sir, it’s a new security procedure; but I can get you back online if you can answer one of your Security Questions over the phone.”

He groans with displeasure. “Ask me the question.”

“Okay. When you first flew in an airplane, what was your destination?”

“I believe it was Chicago, Illinois,” he says.

“Sir, when you originally answered this question, did you type Chicago, or Chicago space Illinois, or Chicago comma Illinois, or Chicago IL? I have to key in your answer and if the spelling is not an exact match, my system will tell me it’s wrong.”

“Gotcha! I think I put down Chicago comma Illinois.”

I submit his answer and wait. “Sorry sir, it’s incorrect.”

“This is ridiculous!” he hisses and I don’t disagree.

But since day one of working here, I’ve learned to never ever give the callers the benefit of the doubt.

So I probe, “Sir, can you please tell me how you would have spelled Chicago, Illinois?”

He emits a loud exaggerated snort, taking slight offense to my question. “Humph, just like how it’s supposed to be spelled—C-h-i-c-a-h-g-o I-l-l-a-n-o-i-s-e.”

I stifle a giggle. “Okay, let me try that.”

I submit his answer and wait for my system to verify it.

“That is the right answer.”

“See!” he says in an accusatory tone. “Why don’t you learn how to spell next time!”

I close my eyes briefly and reset his Security Questions. Some battles are just not worth fighting.

I’m just glad that he didn’t have to spell Mississippi or Massachusetts.

Beep!

Before I can rattle off my usual greeting, the caller ruptures my eardrums, “DO I HAVE TO ANSWER THESE BLASTED SECURITY QUESTIONS?”

“Yes sir, you do,” I say patiently.

“WHY?” He huffs and heaves, like he’s about to suffer a coronary.

“It’s for your protection sir,” I inform him kindly.

“I DO NOT WANT THE EXTRA PROTECTION!”

“I’m so sorry sir, but if you want to use our service, then you don’t have a choice,” I say in my most apologetic voice.

“FINE THEN! I’LL JUST ANSWER ‘DON’T KNOW’ FOR EVERY SINGLE QUESTION!”

Click!

I was about to inform him that if he enters the same answer more than once, our system will reject it. But he didn’t give me a chance. Oh well, he’ll just have to discover that on his own.

Or, he’ll be calling us back.

After taking more than a hundred Security Questions-related calls, I am frazzled to bits.

I hate Security Questions as much as the callers do.

And I hate this job.

Midway through assisting another caller with, you guessed it—her Security Questions, I hear the high pitched, screeching noise of the fire alarm going off.

YESSSSSSS!!! IT’S A FIRE DRILL!!!

“I’m sorry ma’am, but you’ll have to call back in about an hour ‘cause the fire alarm just went off,” I say with a big, fat smile on my face and promptly jam the Log Out button.

I scan the floor for my buddies. But they’re nowhere in sight.

Hmm. They must have already bolted.

Traipsing happily toward the exit stairwell, I merge into the mass exodus.





Karsynn is sitting on a patch of brown grass, basking in the sunlight. “Isn’t this great?” she trills.

“Sure is,” I enthuse, watching a fire truck swing by the curb.

Minutes later, Truong, Mika, Ingeborg and Archie join us on our private oasis, and for the next fifty-five minutes, we lounge under an azure blue sky, enjoying fresh air and good company.

“I sure wish we had fire drills every day,” I murmur lazily, glorifying in the feel of the sun on my cheeks, its lulling warmth making my eyelids drowsy.

Truong sticks a blade of grass in his mouth. “My wish is for that building to burn down to the ground.” He quickly adds, “When nobody is inside it, of course. Now wouldn’t that be nice?”

Everyone echoes his sentiments.

Sigh. I guess you know you really hate your job when you’re wishing for disaster and destruction to strike just so you don’t have to go into work.





Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy. How can I assist?”

“I need help with QuickBooks,” demands the caller. “I can’t get QuickBooks to connect to the internet.”

I probe for more, “Can you connect to any websites when you use your browser?”

“Yes.” His voice is laced with irritation.

“In that case, it’s a QuickBooks issue. The QuickBooks.exe file is blocked from accessing the internet, so you’ll need to contact Intuit or QuickBooks for support. Or it could very well be your firewall blocking you, in which case you’ll need to contact Norton or McAfee.”

“I don’t mean to take it out on you but I DID NOT EXPECT TO BE TRANSFERRED ALL OVER THE PLACE FOR HALF A FOCKIN HOUR JUST SO YOU CAN TELL ME THIS! THIS IS COMPLETE BULLSHIT!”

Now why do you say that you don’t mean to take it out on me? Why? What for? You say that, and then you turn around and take a mega shit on me.

“I’m so sorry sir, but QuickBooks is a third party software which we do not support. As much as I’d like to help you, I can’t; so you’ll need to contact QuickBooks directly.”

“THANKS FOR NOTHING!” he blasts.

“Um, before you go sir, is it okay if I mention a product or a service that may be beneficial to you?” I ask meekly; my voice is strangled to say the least.

But I have to say the dreaded TSR script. Otherwise, I’ll be on a formal warning if the KGB spies are listening.

I hold my breath. I can hear his heavy breathing on the line.

“WHATEVER!” he barks.

“Um, is that a Yes or is that a No?” I swallow hard.

“Let me get this straight young lady. You haven’t even helped me with my issue, and here you’re trying to sell me something? ARE YOU TRYING TO ANTAGONIZE ME?”

“Yes, um, I mean n-no,” I stammer. “What I’m trying to say is yes, I am trying to sell you something but no, I’m not trying to antagonize you. But if I don’t read you the sales script, and if I don’t probe you for more when your answer is ‘whatever,’ then I’ll be docked down by Quality Assurance if this call is monitored.”

He goes ape shit. “THAT IS THE STUPIDEST THING I’VE EVER HEARD. TELL YOUR QUALITY ASSURANCE PEOPLE TO GO F*ck THEMSELVES!”

“Sir...I…err, can definitely submit a customer feedback for you. That is, um, if you’d like me to,” I say, consumed with hope.

“DO THAT. And capitalize the word F*ck!”

Click!

Wow! I feel like I’ve just hit the jack pot.

I’ve been waiting to tell the Quality Assurance A*sholes to go f*ck themselves since day one.

And now, I can—on a customer’s behalf!

With glee and utmost pleasure, I click the Customer Feedback link located on our internal website and begin feverishly tapping away at my keyboard.



Department: Quality Assurance

Subject: Customer Feedback



Notes: Customer is very upset with our policy Re: Selling on every single call. Sometimes it is simply not appropriate. Per the customer, you people (meaning the Quality Assurance group) need to go F*ck yourselves.



Rubbing my palms together and with a million dollar smile plastered on my face, I click submit.

That felt sooooooooooo good.

The Quality Assurance agents in this call center are like the Sicilian Mafioso. They run amok on a power trip, terrorizing us with failed monitors and shoddy quality scores. It’s a classic case of an over abuse of power. Instead of helping us perform our jobs, they hinder us.

Seriously, I get marked down for every petty, ridiculous and egregious thing. The Quality Assurance agents go through a long check list:



#1. Did you thank the customer for calling?

#2. Did you say, “Yes, I can help you with that.”



And on and on it goes.

Recently, I got marked down because I said, “Yes, I can look into that matter for you.” Essentially, it’s the same as informing the caller, “Yes, I can help you with that.”

But nooooooo, not to the QA mob and their convoluted logic. They struck me down hard for not using the exact and precise wording. My failed monitors used to anger me to no end, but now I just find it downright laughable.

The QA A*sholes don’t use their brains, instead relying on a stupid and restrictive check list. The check list is merely there to serve as a guideline, and it’s certainly not meant to replace their brains. But in the QA mob’s case, I guess you can’t replace something that you don’t already have.

Truong calls them the KGB, and quite aptly so. They’re the secret police of this fascist regime. Every single word we utter is subject to their scrutiny.

We’re held hostage by the KGB and their crazy cronies; they suppress our voices, our ideological subversion, and worst of all, they suppress who we are as human beings.

Consequently, my calls end up sounding scripted, like a robot with no life, no emotions.

I’ve already been slapped with two failed monitors this month. What’s next?

“Maddy,” growls The Führer. “Log out of your phone and come see me at my desk.”

Egad! I spoke too soon.

I march to her cubicle with a sense of foreboding. “You wanted to see me?” I hover anxiously by her side.

“Sit!” Her face hardens and she whips out a black folder.

Cautiously, I take a seat.

She yanks my Performance Review out of the black folder and slams her fist on the desk like a sledgehammer. “Look at this! Just look at this will you? You have NOT made your sales quota this month, and you barely scraped through last month!”

A cry of fear escapes my lips.

“On top of that, you’ve had several failed QA monitors. When your stats look bad, I look bad!” She gnashes her teeth. “So far, I’ve been very lenient and merciful in spite of your unacceptable performance. But not anymore!”

I manage a feeble smile. Merciful? Um, if that’s her mercy, I’d hate to see her vengeance.

“Your quality has to be on par too!” She shoots me a vicious look. “Remember, SERVICE OVER SALES!”

I bob my head up and down, obediently playing along.

Riiiiight. Then how come seventy percent of my Performance Review—which incidentally, is what determines my raise next year—is based entirely on sales? Only ten percent is based on my quality scores.

Service over Sales? Pssh! Horseshit!

“And your handle time is way too high! Keep your calls within two minutes! Lower handle time equals more calls. The more calls you take, the more you can sell. Get it?” she shrills.

“Uh-huh,” I squeak.

“And explain all this tardiness!” she barrels on. “How come you logged in from your break one minute late yesterday and two minutes late on Tuesday? EXPLAIN YOURSELF!”

Heck. I’m not going to tell her the real reason. You see, I have a hard time going ‘number two’ on the floor I work on (the third floor). I’m a very private person and try as I may, I just cannot go poo when my co-workers are whooshing in and out of the toilet.

And so I use the restroom located on the thirteenth floor. It’s always vacant, allowing me to do my business in absolute peace, privacy and tranquility.

Perversely, Truong had once admitted that he never goes ‘number two’ at work. He said, “I just hold it in until I get home.”

I’d stared at him as if he was bonkers. Then I’d asked, “What if you have an EXPLOSION in your chair?”

Truong had just stared at me as if I was the one who was bonkers.

I’m sorry, but I can’t hold it in. I think I’d DIE if I did. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

The only problem is, a fifteen minute break does not afford me ample time to use the restroom located on the thirteenth floor. Mind you, I sprint up and down the stairs at the speed of a gazelle. And sometimes I make it back on time, sometimes I don’t. Trust me; I even tried taking the lift once, but it ended up taking much longer.

Hillary’s eyes burn with rage. “SO?” The Führer demands an answer, “WHY WERE YOU LATE?”

I twist my fingers, trying to come up with something that will placate her. After a tentative pause, I manage, “I was going over the sales integrity CBT (Computer Based Training) to, um, make sure I’m in compliance with all the rules and regulations we have to abide by, you know, when selling over the phones, and um, I just somehow lost track of time...” I trail off unsteadily. “But I had to do it! It was my fiduciary obligation,” I expostulate.

The fire in her eyes is extinguished—at least for now.

Phew! That always seems to do the trick.

Mention words like Regulation, Compliance, Sales, Obligation and it immediately quells her anger somewhat.

Hillary harrumphs and steers the topic back to my poor sales performance. “Just look at these atrocious sales numbers! They are completely unacceptable!”

I gulp and wheel my chair back several inches.

Her capacious nostrils flare with annoyance. “So, what do you have to say for yourself?”

I sit numbly in my chair. “Um…I…err, tried?”

“WELL YOU ARE NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH! I have listened to your monitors and YOU HAVE NOT BEEN SELLING ON EVERY SINGLE CALL!”

“But, sometimes I can’t,” I say timidly.

“Excuses, excuses!” she spits. “This week, I’ll be doing side-by-sides with you, starting right now.”

She marches me to my cubicle, pulls up a chair next to mine, throws on her headset and Y-jacks onto my headset.

I feel trapped.

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy. How can I help?”

“I need to pay my cell phone bill,” says the caller.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve got the wrong department.”

“My fault.” He chortles briefly. “I’m on chemo right now and my mind is just not in the right place.”

“Don’t worry about it, sir,” I say amiably. “People get lost in the tree of numbers all the time. Let me just get you over to a billing sp—” I pause mid-sentence as Hilary is shooting me a scathing look.

I push MUTE and turn to her. “What?”

“Pitch a sales offer!” she orders so severely that the veins on her forehead are pulsating and popping.

“Hillary, he has cancer,” I beseech, my eyes begging her. “He’s sick and he may have months, maybe only days to live.”

“I—do—not—care!” Her tone is cold and remorseless.

Resigning myself, I release the MUTE key.

“Sir, before I transfer you to a billing specialist, is it okay if I mention a product or a service that may be beneficial to you?” I cringe at my very own words.

“Darlin’, I am a dying man. There is nothing else I need but God’s love.” He chuckles heartily.

Instantly, I am filled with remorse. And I berate myself for allowing Hillary to bully me into pitching a sale to a man who is terminally ill and about to meet his Maker.

There really are no ‘right words’ to say to him. His situation is horrible and death is final. I used to take offense when people would say that my dad was going off to a better place, or that his pain would soon be over with. I know they were well-meaning, but I would rather they had said nothing at all.

The Führer is still on my case.

“Say something!” she hisses. “Empathize with the caller.”

This caller seems so positive and the last thing I want to say to him is something pitiful like, “I’m sorry,” so I try to match his upbeat mood. “Sir, will you please put a good word up there for me when you see God and Saint Pete?”

“I sure will,” he says with a smile in his voice. “What is your name again?”

“Madison Lee,” I say and he’s the very first caller to whom I have disclosed my full name.

“Will do,” he says kindly.

After transferring him over to the payment center, I turn to Hillary. “See!” I say steadfastly. “It’s not possible to sell on every call. Sometimes, it’s just not right. He’s a dying man Hillary.”

The Führer is without a soul. “If you did not make the offer, then how would you have known if he would have said ‘Yes’ or ‘No’?” She raises her unibrow, making her meaning quite clear.

I drop it. It’s pointless…just like talking to a brick wall.

She’s clearly brainwashed like the rest of them.

Anxiously, I sit and wait for another call to come through.

It’s summer time and the call volume tends to drop during the warmer months, and spike during the colder ones. And right now, it’s super slow.

Hilary seems annoyed that it has slowed down. She glares at me belligerently, as if it is my fault that there aren’t any calls in queue. Gosh. Her eyes are ablaze like red hot coals.

Squirming in my seat, I mutter, “Um, Hillary...will you please stop yelling at me?”

“I’m not yelling at you,” she snaps.

“Yes you are. You-you’re yelling at me with your eyes.”

Beep!

I sag with relief. “Thanks for calling…”





By the end of my shift, I am having serious thoughts of suicide, and for some odd reason, my left eye hurts like crazy. I briefly close my eyes, hoping that the mere act of shielding it from the bright lights will offer some sort of relief from the acute burning sensation. It feels like someone is stabbing my eye with a blunt screwdriver.

I’m stumbling down the stairs with my vision impaired, when Mika is suddenly beside me.

“Hey,” he says, slowing down to match my pace.

I squint. “Hey.”

He immediately notices something amiss. “Are you okay? You look a little tired.”

I sigh. “I’m all right. Hillary’s been doing side-by-sides with me all day.”

He makes an apologetic grimace.

“Mika, is it okay with you if we skip your tutoring session this weekend? I don’t know why, but my left eye is bugging the hell outta me.”

“Sure. Of course we can skip it.” He stops and gently tilts up my chin. Bending his face to my upturned face, he studies my left eye. “Hmm. It looks pretty red.”

Instinctively, I touch it and wince. “It does?” I ask, squinching my mangled eye. I probably look like a mad Mongoloid.

A look of concern clouds his face. “Yeah, you better go home and get plenty of rest, okay?”

“Okay,” I mutter, bumbling my way down the stairs. “What about you? What are you doing tonight?”

He props the door open. “Nothing exciting. I have a hundred page thesis to write.”

We stroll out side by side into the sweet, balmy summer night and a welcoming breeze kisses my cheeks.

Mika escorts me to my car. “I’ll call you tonight?”

“Sure.” I stall for time, swinging my bag from side to side. “Are you heading home right now?”

Another breeze sweeps in and tiny wisps of hair tickle his forehead. “Yeah.” He smiles. “Why?”

I clear my throat. “Um, don’t you have to wait for Tatiana?”

He rakes a hand through his wind-rumpled hair. “As a matter of fact, I don’t. Tatiana’s hooked up with Adnan, so he gives her a ride now,” he says with a hint of relief in his voice.

“Adnan? The security guy?” I ask, surprised yet undeniably pleased. “Are you for real?”

Mika confirms this with a nod, and waits for me to slide into my car before firmly shutting the door after me.

I roll down my window. “Do you want to go hiking up in Cherry Creek tomorrow?” I ask on a whim.

“Sure.” He leans forward and lightly brushes my hair from my eyes. “We’ll figure out the details when I call you tonight, ‘k?”

“Okay.” I find myself grinning stupidly.

For a brief moment, our eyes lock and he gives me a strange, serious look. The moonlight flicks on his face, and after several beats he steps back and says, “Take care of that eye of yours.”

“I’ll try.” I switch on the ignition.

Although there is an acute burning sensation in my left eye, and the earlier part of my day was total crap (thanks to Hillary), I feel my spirits soar. “Ta-Ta, Tatiana,” I think out loud.

As I’m driving away in a haze of delight, I glance at my rear view mirror and see Mika standing in the middle of the parking lot, watching me.

Unblinking, I watch him watching me until all I can make of him is a tiny speck of dust.





It’s a scorcher! It seriously feels like someone is holding a Conair hair dryer up to my face. We are marinating in this heat, and I’m pretty sure I can make beef jerky on the grill without even turning it on.

In spite of the insufferable heat, Mika and I are enjoying our hike through Cherry Creek. The trail follows the creek upstream, taking us through a tapestry of trees and wildlife.

After hiking for almost an hour, we stop under a shady Aspen tree to replenish our fluids. Standing there side by side, we find ourselves gazing out at the golden sky, robed by the mid-afternoon rays.

Mika turns to me, sun glinting in his hair. “I’ve got a little surprise for you.”

My face lights up. “You do?”

“Close your eyes,” he instructs. “And open your hands.”

Placing my faith in him, I squeeze my eyes shut and keep my hands wide open. Seconds later, I feel something small and scaly wiggling about in the palms of my hands.

I smile. It brings back fond and happy memories. I don’t even need to open my eyes and I know exactly what it is.

It’s a sagebrush lizard.

“Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

Upon doing so, I dissolve into a gooey mush.

It’s a baby sagebrush lizard. The tiny reptile pulls on all of my heart strings. “Aww you’re so cute.” My palms curl up and I coddle it close to my heart. “Thank you,” I gush, choking with emotion. Right this second, I want to fling my arms around him and never let go.

He kneels down beside me, and for a little while, we gaze adoringly at the lizard like it’s our firstborn child.

“Hi buddy, you’re still a little skittish aren’tcha?” I lightly tap the lizard’s head and grandiloquently anoint him, “I shall hereby name you Ewan McGregor.”

Mika chuckles. “Ewan McGregor?”

“Yeah, I always name my lizards after famous celebs.”

A faint look of amusement lights his face. “So what will you do with Sir Ewan McGregor?”

“Just hold him for a few minutes and then I’ll set him free,” I say, feeling radiantly happy.

Meanwhile, Ewan still seems skittish. Making cooing sounds, I stroke him lightly on the underside, and Ewan begins to relax under my hands.

I’ll have to give myself credit when credit is due. I am a Lizard Whisperer.

Mika stares at me unblinking. “How did you do that?”

I show him. And pretty soon, he’s gotten the hang of it.

Gently, he rubs Ewan’s belly, much to the reptile’s enjoyment. “This fellow here is pretty tame,” he says, carefully handing the lizard back to me.

I coddle little Ewan for several more minutes and breathe out a sated sigh. Reluctantly, I kneel on the ground and set him free.

Brushing the dirt off my knees, I watch Ewan scurry about and in the blink of an eye, he scuttles off into the nearest shrub.

A sagebrush of course.

I look up and catch Mika gazing at me with affection.

“Thanks again.” On impulse, I throw my arms around him and embrace him in a burly bear hug.

He buries me in his arms and murmurs in hair, “Anytime.”

Cradled against his chest, I grin with contentment, allowing myself to be smothered by him.

Out of the woodwork, a bearded hiker tramples by the beaten path and we spring apart like guilty lovers. Then we resume our hike, pretending like the embrace had never happened.