He would never admit in mixed company that he came from a bloodline of quick-fainters. His father, Wilson Randolph Sloan, passed out at the sight of blood. His grandfather, Randolph Willard Sloan, IV, had a certain chink in his powerful armor at the sudden smell of horseradish and dill. His cousin Randolph Wilsonard Sloan was not prone to fainting, but never learned how to swim and avoided open containers of liquid. He died of dehydration at the young age of 22.

William Randolph Sloan’s fainting spells came with no rhyme or reason. Sometimes he would be out cold for mere seconds, other times he would require hospitilization. Smelling salts did no good. Many a glasses of water had been wasted in the effort to revitalize the man. Giving him a good slap or two would only bring relief to the person administrating the slaps.

Epiphany. That was the only way for William Randolph Sloan to emerge from his faux-coma like state. He would have to have a visit with Epiphany.

The silence in the room caused William Randolph Sloan’s ears to swell with the echo of his own rapid pulse. The noise sounded like thousands of soldiers marching on sandy beaches to reach the front of the battle. His eyes closed and the darkness quickly gave way to brilliantly colored dancing shapes, purples and deep blues and bright with white flashes of electricity that repeated an unending pattern. Without breaking their firm seal, the eyelids of William Randolph Sloan whisked the hot flow of tears quickly from the surface of his bloodshot eyeballs. The salty tears quickly navigated their way through the corner of his tightly squeezed eyes and down whiskers of his new beard.

Suddenly his legs had no strength. The legs that supported him as a young boy sorting paper in his company’s mailroom; the legs that walked into a smoky board room as a young man and proposed the idea that sensationalism resulted in profit; the legs that had served as the base of his strong, robust torso. Now they were nonexistent. Yes, they were there, but their purpose was no longer useful and quickly the core of William Randolph Sloan’s body gave way to the force of gravity.

“Now you listen to me, Mr. Sloan. I have been on my feet the moment that phone call came in. I have run myself ragged trying to fulfill your requests. I’m sorry that they don’t have any more slippers at the department store. I’m sorry that your cigar tastes like tree bark. I’m sorry that the air in this room is slowly choking you. I’ve fetched your slippers, I’ve replaced your cigars, I’ve opened windows and I’m so very close to throwing you out of one of them right now.”

William Randolph Sloan stuttered, “Hold on there Marg-”

“And more than anything, Mr. Sloan. I am so very sorry that your little girl has been kidnapped. I cannot tell you how much it breaks my heart to see you pace, to see you ask questions that no one can give you the answers to, to not eat for two weeks straight. It breaks my heart, Mr. Sloan. But you need to listen to me. Sitting in this office, walking back and forth, pounding on your desk, ordering people about without the slightest amount of respect or gratitude- you cannot continue this type of behavior. You need to sleep. You need to eat. You need to take care of yourself.”

William Randolph Sloan’s face fell to a blank. Margie could make out the slightest amount of movement in his nostrils; she knew what was coming.

“You need to take care of yourself, Mr. Sloan. Not only for your sake or the sake of the people around you, but for the sake of your little girl. For the sake of Molly.”

Margie hated to pull the one last thread that was keeping the faux brave front of Mr. Sloan basted to his exterior, but she knew William Randolph Sloan better than her own mother. Tugging that thread would be the only way to help him shed his suit of fear and worry, leaving him metaphorically naked. And a metaphorically naked William Randolph Sloan is, indeed, a sight to behold.

In Margie’s opinion, at least.

She now held onto this final pair of slippers- the only ones that would be available until December- tightly in her tired arms.

“Margie. What are you waiting for? Bring me another pair. I feel like the ball of my foot is being shredded away.”

She placed the slippers gingerly on the desk.

“Mr. Sloan. That’s the last pair until December.” Her glasses were beginning to glide down the fine sheet of sweat that had suddenly developed on her nose. She quickly pushed them back into place.

“Nonsense. They know these are the only pair I wear. It’s a department store. It’s their job to make wares available to their customers. When I need slippers, they better have slippers.”

She silently shifted her stance and popped a new knot in the root of her back. “The lady at the store said they won’t have any more available until the end of December.”

Suddenly, Mr. Sloan’s desk was clear of his ink blotter, his pen holder, his cigar lighter, his mountain of piled articles, receipts, forms and scratch paper with scribbled notes. All lay beside his walnut desk. A small wisp of dust lingered.

“Well find another place that has them, Margie. This is unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable! I need those slippers. How can I be expected to save my little girl if I can’t even comfortably exist?! I am a very powerful man and I have needs and one of those needs is a pair of slippers! I need them Margie! I need them! Get them for me right now!” His fist bounded on the waxed surface of his desk with each point of emphasis. His bloodshot eyes eerily disappeared and reappeared behind the rapid blinking of his darkened lids.

The sole of Margie’s feet began to burn. The sensation quickly flooded the sockets of her hips. She felt the small amount of flesh on the mound of her thumb get pinched by the sharp edges of her well-manicured nails. Her glasses slipped.

A quivering hand replaced her spectacles. But instead of returning to its usual position passively tucked into the small of her back, her hand formed a small fist and slammed against the top of Mr. Sloan’s walnut desk.

The resulting echo caused such a surge in the environment that the linen window treatments rustled. Margie’s glasses slipped from the sudden force of movement. She yanked the chain they dangled from around her neck and flung them to the ground, the two small seashell accents skipped across the floor.