Martin parked his van in its usual place. He got out and tried the handle again, just to see if it had magically repair itself during the day. It hadn't. Counting his money he realised that, even with Mrs. Duwn's extra for emptying the freezer. Don't think about that! He had enough money to pay the rent, but not enough to unlock the door and pay the rent. He called his landlord from the phone booth and left a message on his answering machine to explain the situation and hoped he would be home by tomorrow night.

He returned to his van to escape the snow and left the motor running a bit to stay warm. He had enough money to put a bit more petrol in, at least. He got out of his drenched clothes and tried to wring them as best he could before settling in his sheets. After half an hour he cut the motor and fell into an uneasy sleep, coughing badly.

***

He woke with a start on Monday morning. He felt the beginning of a flu and the headache was still there. What am I forgetting? He looked around and his eyes fell on his watch. Nine? Shitshitshitshitshit! He hurried to put back the still-soaked clothes on and to go to today's first appointment. He was lucky to get there only 3 minutes late.

He did the job, and easy transport of pillows, duvet, sheet and curtains from one warehouse to another, and stopped to put more petrol in his van. The job had been easy, but fast. It only got him £20 and he was so hungry he spent what little he had left after the fill on a loaf of bread and some pre-made canned spaghetti that tasted horrible but where more filling then Pot Noodles.

His second and last job of the day wasn't so easy. It took him all the rest of the day to load his van at one house to unload it in a brand new house half an hour away. The clients looked at him with open disgust when he arrive. Martin couldn't blame them, really. The snow had stopped during the night and it was only a small drizzle that fell from the sky now, but his clothes where soaking wet, his boots still made a wet sound every step he took, he was shivering from the cold and the fever he was sure he had, he was paler than usual and he kept sniffling and sneezing.

The customer paid him with a cheque and sent him on his way as fast as they could. The bank was closed at this time of the day so he put the cheque in his wallet and returned home.

The rain started to fall down hard and fast again

***

The landlord had come when Martin got home. That was a nice surprise! He let himself in and saw the note on his door.

"Got your message when I got home earlier today. I fixed the handle. Sorry for the trouble it
cost you. 'M'afraid there was bad weather during my stay in Italy: the roof got banged-up
by the winds and a big branch destroyed one of your windows. The hot water is also out due
to the same tree falling on a line and cutting the electricity. I'll be there on Friday to fix it."

Frowning, Martin warily opened the door to his attic room. The entire house was cold, but his room was freezing. There was water and glass everywhere. Especially on his bed, situated just under the window. Water was dripping from almost everywhere on the ceiling. His landlord had put buckets here and there and they were all overflowing already. And his computer, while old and prone to bug, would surely never start again judging by the pool of water around it. Most of his books were soaked, too.

Martin's chest contracted. He fell on the floor and let go of all resemblance of dignity. He just cried at the injustice of it all.

After what seemed like an eternity, Martin lied on the floor, not sure what to do. Unsure if he wanted to do anything. But the cold won over the inertia and he knelled, trying to figure out his next move. He decided to take some dry clothes he found and to put them in a bin liner. He couldn't make any diner without electricity so he just ate two slice of bread with nothing on it, swallowing them down with the help of a glass of water. Then he decided to go sleep in his van again.

Martin felt miserable when he stripped of his clothes. He couldn't stop shivering, even with the heating on full blast, so he set up his alarm and cut off the motor. He snuggled as best he could in his sheets. All of his body hurt from the work he did the last two days and from all the shivering. Sleeping on the floor of the van didn't help matters much. He wished he could be in front of his simulator right now. A make-shift flight would bring his spirit up a bit at least. But that thought only brought vision of his computer sitting in a puddle of water and he felt the silent tears fall out of his eyes again. He cried himself to sleep.

***

He felt horrible the next day. His throat hurt, every movement seemed like a punishment. Just putting the dry clothes brought sobs. He sat behind the wheel and took sometime to regain his breath. The shivering seemed like it would never end. So did the blasted rain. He put the eat on full, not able to care about the petrol it would cost him, and set to his appointment. He had only one job today and it was a fairly short one to transport three paintings from one gallery to their new owner.

Upon arriving to the gallery, he knew immediately something wasn't right. The perplex look of the gallery owner, only slightly stronger than the looks of horror he express when he first saw a very sick-looking Martin, wasn't supposed to be there.

"Icarus Removal" said Martin, his voice croaking horribly. Martin winced at the pain it provoked and decided against trying to swallow.

"Yes... I was afraid you might be. Didn't you get my message? I called on Monday morning to tell you: The sell was annulled. I'm afraid I don't need your services today."

"Oh..."
" And... If I may... You look like you should go back to bed to nurse that cold."

"Yes... I'll..." Martin bit back the sob and the tears threatening to come out. Because my throat hurts. I'm NOT crying. It's just the pain. "I lost the electricity after the storm... That's why I didn't get... hm... Sorry. Have a nice day."

Martin left, is sore muscle battling with his sore ego for speed. The gallery's owner looked like he wanted to say something when Martin climbed in his van, but he either changed his mind or Martin couldn't hear him under the sound of the van's motor.

***

He parked his van on the side of the road. The tears wouldn't allow him to see the road clearly enough to know where he was going. He put his head on the steering wheel and cried again. He was aware that he was crying a lot, but, he thought, I think I'm justified, aren't I?
He calmed a bit with the thought of being on GERTI tomorrow. And it will be dry and warm. And FOOD. God, he was so hungry.

Trying to push aside visions of food, he took a shaking breath and straighten. Just one last night and everything would be all right: He was going away for a bit more then a week which meant a week of having a roof on top of his head, a week of being dry, a week of eating something else then Pot noodles and plain bread and a week of flying.

With that cherry thought in my he turned the key in the ignition to start the rest of the trip home.

That was counting against his luck, however. I'm such in IDIOT! He had forgotten he meant to fill the gas thank up after picking the paintings.