Macy March’s glare panned the boardroom. The only person she liked right now was the lowly boardroom attendant. He lumbered alongside the vast Bolivian imported table, collecting demitasse cups along with each employee’s spent Irish linen napkin.

All eyes avoided hers, they knew her arrogance and anger was justified. She campaigned hard for a newly created C.E.O. position. She would have had a top floor office in New York City, the site of their new East Coast operations.

She had trained the simpleton they installed. She formulated and sealed the expansion deal. She negotiated the long-term office lease. Here she was, stuck in Salt Lake, a stifling haven for the upwardly pure. She hated it here. She needed lights, free minded people, hot-dog vendors and Broadway. She needed to return home.

Macy sat mesmerized by the attendant’s tiny Austrian crumb tray & brush as he collected their Danish’s leavings. Someone nudged her, plasma screens sizzled to life. Faces fell. Gasps: jets-towers-attack-New York-