The weary assistant burst through the door of the yurt, already in full panic mode. Her last-minute sweep of the space and its so-called amenities? A disaster.
“They call this glamping,” she scoffed, sprinting down the dirt path.
Of course, she didn’t really care if the place wasn’t up to snuff, but her egomaniac boss did. And sadly, that’s what really mattered.
She stormed down the aisle of the only drug store in this one-horse town. She slapped her sweaty palms on the laminated counter and glared at the cashier.
“A pair of fuzzy slippers. In aqua. Help me, please.”
The Weekday One Hundred 