The Mole

The realization thundered through her brain and down her spine before settling in her now-useless legs: there was a mole amongst them.

For weeks there had been suspicions - Number 3 reported a faint, brief chirping sound during one of their calls on a 'secure' line. Number 4 reported nothing when they one day noticed that a portion of a page had been seemingly torn out of their small white book. Of course the book should not have been left where it was, and number 4 knew that.

'Not possible. Every possible point of vulnerability has been identified, secured, and monitored with meticulous precision' asserted number 1. 'There is no way, no possible way that we could be infiltrated unless somebody opened the front goddamned door and let them walk in.'

His shoulder-width confidence did not afford even a glimpse into the wrestling match currently underway in his mind. Was it possible? Of course it was - Number 2 doesn't mind a drink or 7 every couple of days. Number 3 has seemed simply 'off' lately. Trouble concentrating on tasks previously considered routine and coming in late more than twice. Should any interested parties be sniffing around, they would likely find an opening. And they would likely capitalize on it.

A meeting was in order. 

Number 4 arrived first, casually and dutifully lighting the 19th century glass oil lamp that resides on the corner table before settling into the 1960s Ingmar Relling leather and wood rocking chair. A complete departure from the rest of the decor, they always wondered why and how it ended up here, included in the otherwise tasteless, tacky, garage sale-caliber contents of the place. One thing was known, however; the best piece of furniture was also the power seat. Situated in the far corner and facing the doorway, it was correct, according to ancient Chinese practices. 

Number 3 arrived unapologetically last. Sitting at the last available seat closest to Number 1, they somehow managed to place the handful of workbooks on the table with equal amounts of care and protest. Somebody was not looking forward to this meeting and they didn't mind the others knowing.

'Thanks for clearing your schedules. I'll do my best to keep this brief' began Number 1. 'As you may or may not have heard, there have been some concerns of late. Integrity. Security. Accountability. It's all we have. It is what keeps us in and keeps them out. Without integrity, security, and accountability, we might as well put an ad in the darn Times that reads 'Rats welcomed. Apply within. Our doors are always open'.

Number 4's eyes rolled dramatically back into their orbital sockets, not unlike those 21-year olds from Indiana who did two hits each at Coachella because their logic dictated that if they can spend 9 hours a day baling hay, they can handle it.

It all happened so fast. Number 2 had just engaged her diaphragm in preparation of releasing a windstorm of authority aimed at Number 4 and their arrogance. At that moment, Number 1 saw it. Right there and moving fast. The mole, in a moment of bravery or stupidity, had exited its newly-built nest in the guts of the Danish chair and was now darting toward anything that resembled concealment. Number 1 grabbed the first available projectile - the little black book that Number 3 had placed on the table in front of him - and hurled it wildly, like a child throwing a flaming paper airplane, at the vermin. He missed. The little black book ricocheted off of the corner table, toppling the oil lamp. The table and surrounding walls were immediately transformed into a flowing, cascading river of blue flame. The whole place was made of wood and the lace curtains were now nothing more than a wick. In those eternal moments that reside between seconds, chaos was all that was real. There was no order, there were no heroics. 

As they stood in the yard, transfixed by the massive, searing and soaring flames that now engulfed the entire structure, the shock-induced silence was finally ended by a voice. Number 1's voice. 'I can't believe it. It's all gone. It happened so fast'. 

Number 2, in their ever-rational, calming voice offered whatever comfort their mind could muster: 'Don't worry about it, honey. It's only things. We have insurance and this is why'. 

It was 4 weeks later, after the investigation, the meetings with claims adjusters, the declarations and the determinations, that the cheque arrived at the hotel in which they had sought temporary refuge. $724,692. And 14 cents. Twice what they had paid for the house only six years ago. 

'That's a lot of green for arthritically throwing a little black book at a little black mouse' reminisced Number 1.

'Next time let's keep the darn doors shut like we talked about'.