Closing time. You have just finished going through the invoices, and Uncle Marty is counting the register. Cousin Dermot is hunched over the counter, asleep.
"You go, Alistair", Uncle Marty says, "us two will lock up. Don't want to keep the wife waiting, do you?"
You are going to the funfair. You promised Catherine.
The clock strikes six: you are late, once more.
19th place (out of 38) in the 17th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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