I jolt. “W-what?”
“Quack.”
This time, I jump, stumbling back against the doorframe. Palming my heart before it jumps out of my throat, I wonder if I just hallucinated. Because that sound waswaytoo loud to come from behind the mysterious closed door, which means it came from inside the office. But there’s no way, because it sounded like?—
A duck waddles out from behind the desk, dark bill, brown feathers, and all. It stops when it turns the corner and stares at me with beady eyes.
“Quack.”
This quack sounds…impatient. Like it’s waiting for a reaction. But I can’t give one, because I’m still trying to process if I’m actually staring at a duck in the office. A real, live,enormousduck.
Five seconds later, it hasn’t disappeared, so I know this is real. And then I realize,oh my gosh, there’s a duck in the office.A wild animal.
Does it have rabies? Ithasto have rabies. Rabies makes animals do all kinds of abnormal behaviors, and a duck being in an office is definitely abnormal.
“Quack.”
I inch forward, one hand on the door handle in case it decides to charge me. There’s no drool coming from its mouth, which is maybe a good sign. With slow, careful movements, I extract my phone from my pocket and quickly search:How to tell if a duck has rabies.
The results have my hand dropping from the knob.Ducks cannot contract rabies. Rabies affects mammals.
I’m too relieved to be embarrassed I didn’t know this.
“Quack.”
This one’s disgruntled. Accusatory, like it knows I assumed it had a mind-addling virus.
I replace my phone and set my shoulders. The little guy doesn’t have rabies, but he definitely shouldn’t be here. There are wires and seat cushions for him to chew up and destroy. Leaving him here while I find help will make me look like some incapable girl, and if corporate Boston taught me anything, it’s that first impressions are fast and final.
“Come here, ducky,” I croon in a high-pitched voice.
It blinks.
I crouch to its level. “Mr. Duck, let’s go please.”
Again, it doesn’t move.
Time to get resourceful.
I reach into my bag for the sandwich I packed for lunch. Peeling open the foil, I wave one end toward the duck. I’maware this is a bird and not a dog, but given its size, it probably isn’t one to turn down food.
I’m right, because it happily waddles toward me.
I slowly open the door and inch outside, taking the sandwich with me. But the bird stops just before the threshold with another disgruntled, “Quack.”
“C’mon,” I groan, waving the sandwich.
It thinks about it, reaching forward cautiously with its head.
Come on. Come on. Come on.
I’m so zeroed in on whether its splayed webbed feet will take a step that I don’t notice how close the duck’s beak has gotten to the sandwich.
It lunges, and in the matter of a second, the entire turkey sandwich is out of my hand and in its mouth.
This is war.
“No, you did not!” I shout, lunging after the duck who’s a flurry of feathers as it escapes back into the office.
