Failure

At the end of the day, I found myself standing in the middle of the too-large office, with nothing around me to hide behind. Every instinct I had was shouting Danger! — to run and hide from predators — but I managed, surprisingly, to stand my ground.

It's not like running would have helped.

Uncle Peter, from behind his desk, looked at me over the rims of his glasses. "Well, Leroy," he said, "I'm really not sure what to say to you."

I didn't say anything. I wasn't really sure what to say either.

"I'm not sure it would matter if I say anything to you, anyway," he continued. "Either you already understand or you don't; and it doesn't change anything either way." His eyes went distant, and his ears tensed slightly. "Not a damned thing."

Uncle Peter had never cursed before, as far as I could remember. I flinched. I'm not sure if he noticed, though.

"I'm not going to ask you to clean out your desk, actually. There's likely to be less paperwork this way, if we just wait a few days." He was calm. Too calm. "With this many eggs lost... you do realize, boy, that you're not going to live through the week?"

I should have been surprised. Appalled. Afraid. Angry. Instead I was kind of relieved: at least I knew, now. The wide-open space didn't even bother me much anymore.

"Go home, Leroy," he said, finally. He looked old — years older than he should have. "Go home, and enjoy your damned Trix, whatever comfort they are to you." He angrily smashed a button with his entire left forepaw; there was a brief buzz. "Mopsy! Have someone escort Leroy to the door, if you would."

"Yes, Mr. Cottontail," came the voice over the intercom. I'd never heard Mopsy speak in person, I realized, and now I probably never would. Two rabbits came in — they must have been waiting — and almost politely nudged me out, and to the rear entrance, avoiding everyone along the way.