But not at the same time because that would be too weird, like we've been-dropped-into-a-parallel-universe-that's-actually-some-lesser-version-of-hell weird, or like a wicked bad omen of something worse yet to come.
BW's publisher survived two freak non-concurrent occurrences this year. Like the genesis-of-urban-legend kind of freaky. First, she was bitten by a dog while waiting at her therapist's office: a tactic that--if a ploy by said therapist to induce further stress and ensuring future business--shouldn't be repeated. Then she went on vacation, surrendering to the mayhem that sometimes results when we trust forces beyond our control. All was well on the tracks--for, being of adventurous spirit, this publisher of ours had taken to the rails to travel as people did once upon a slower time--until a freak windstorm called a derecho knocked out the tracks and dumped her and her two kids unexpectedly in the sweltering summer of Omaha, some 400-plus miles from her destination.
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