"What is this CRAP?" Birkhoff said in disgust, and Kate jumped, spilling Girl Scout cookies all over her desk.

"Geez, Birkhoff, don't DO that," she grumbled, quickly pushing save, and he downed a cookie.

"Are there any more of these?"

"In the freezer. Help yourself." Kate heard Birkhoff clomp downstairs (how had she not heard him come up?), and open the refrigerator.

He called up, "Can I have some --"

"Yes, whatever you want," Kate yelled back, and soon she heard him slumping back up. He pulled up another director's chair and handed her a glass of lemonade. "Thanks," she said.

"I heard you chicks wore weird slippers," he said, looking pointedly at her feet.

"I can't think good with my feet covered up," she admitted, and wiggled her red-painted toes.

Birkhoff rolled his eyes. "All right, let's see what you've got." Kate politely scrolled up and he read the story from the beginning. She was quiet, watching him squint at the screen.

Birkhoff sighed and sat back, rubbing his head. "This SUCKS. This is total CRAP."

"You said that already," Kate said crossly. "I know it is. It's awful. Even I can't believe it. What can I do?"

"Well, first of all, forget Operations. You can't be sympathetic to him, leave him to someone else. So delete the first three paragraphs."

Kate did so, then glanced over at him. "Now what?"

"All the stuff about bombs and detonators ... geez, Walter'll kill you himself, it's TOTALLY inaccurate."

"Well, excuse me, but I never took classes in pyrotechnics."

"Yeah, no kidding." He shook his head. "Where do you get this stuff? For starters, didn't you ever hear ‘Write what you know'?"

"Hey, LFN isn't exactly Real Life," Kate said defensively.

"Watch it," he warned. "I could have you canceled for that."

"Give me a break. You could sever my connection to the RR boards, and screw up my E-mail for life, but have me canceled--! Come on."

"Hey, I know people ..."

"Listen, we're talking about ME, okay? Help me with this story." Kate took another Thin Mint and grabbed Birkhoff's IBC rootbeer.

Birkhoff reread the remaining paragraphs and ate three more cookies. He looked around, distracted, and said. "Good grief. I can't believe it. Where are the poofs?"

"Scuse?"

"The poofs, the poofs," he said, agitated. "The cheesy poofs, damn it. Where are they?"

"Why Birkhoff, such language," Kate simpered, and he pretended to box her ears.

"No poofs, no plot," he shrugged. "It's as easy as that." He looked at her, a little sorry for her, and sighed. "I'll run out and get some. You run spell check. And when I get back, we'll work on it together, okay?"

"Okay," Kate said in a small voice, chocolate crumbs clinging to her lips. Birkhoff sighed and patted her awkwardly on the head, then clomped downstairs. She heard the front door slam, and she suddenly hopped up, threw open the window, and yelled, "Don't forget the twizzlers!"

"Will do," his voice floated up, and Kate closed the window. Then she sat back down in her chair, chewing on a pencil, and reread her screen.

He was right. It did suck. She sighed. Poofs. Who knew they were so important?

She hoped he hurried.

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