Dec 28
The future belongs to those who can rise above the confines of the earth.
Alfred North Whitehead (1861 - 1947), From the viewbook of Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University

Timothy McGee resisted the urge to scream as the elevator ground to a halt. He had almost made it out the building…

It had been a long, tough week. Three children kidnapped out their beds as they slept at night had annoyed Gibbs and his team enough that they had poured every last ounce of effort and time into getting them back alive. Which they had, but at a cost. They hadn't slept in four days. Tim was pretty sure he was starting to hallucinate.

Gibbs had ordered them to go home, sleep, and not set foot in the Navy Yard before midday tomorrow. Tim had been desperate to obey the order, but his computer had picked up a virus at some point during the investigation (he couldn't honestly separate Day Two and Day Three in his head) and he needed to deal with it before it did serious damage. And so he had remained behind for the past two hours to sort it out.

It should have taken a lot less time, but he was exhausted and the computer screen had swum the whole time.

And now, just as he had been about to escape, the elevator had broken down.

He shrugged, resigned to his fate. There was no energy left in him to rant at the universe for its quirks. Instead, he removed his jacket and curled up in a ball on the floor. He could catch up on his sleep here. Someone would find him in the morning.