Briggin terminated the call and shook his head. Every mother thinks her kid is the smartest the world has ever seen. He went back to his breakfast—a cup of black coffee and a glazed donut, both delivered fresh this morning—and purposefully ignored the quiet tone that told him he’d received an urgent message. He glanced up only long enough to verify that it was from Mirena. As if he had time to drop everything to look at a picture colored by an eight-year-old. He had enough to worry about these days.
With Gloria and Jevo both gone, the progress at the lab had virtually stopped. He estimated that they were about two years behind schedule now. How would they ever catch up? What would happen when the time came to deliver, and Briggin had only a pair of empty hands and a shrug of the shoulders to give his boss? We gave it the old college try, Fergus, and we came up short. Sorry about that. What could he expect, that Fergus would say, “No problem, old chap, you’ve done your best?” No. There could be no excuses, and definitely no forgiveness.
Yet what could he do? If he approached Fergus now and gave him a clear picture of the state of the lab, there was no way that he’d be able to keep his job. He’d be replaced immediately. And who could possibly do a better job than him? The work would really stop if that were to happen. No, the only thing that made sense was to keep plugging away, find a way to inspire his crew, work harder. And pray for a miracle.
Briggin didn’t believe in miracles, of course, but that’s exactly what he needed. And that was exactly what was sitting in his files right then, unread and unacknowledged.