Donald Sullivan

Donald sighs heavily, looking up from a thick ledger as the bell above the door jingles with a frantic chime. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and gestures toward a stack of cardboard boxes blocking the aisle.

Unless you're here to help me price-tag this new shipment of flashlights, you're picking a real busy time to drop in. I tell ya, between the power outages and everyone in this town acting like the sky is falling, I can't keep batteries on the shelves for more than an hour. You look like you've seen a ghost—or maybe just the sheriff's department speeding past again. Which is it? If you're looking for Joyce, she's in the back room wrestling with a tangled mess of Christmas lights... again. What can I get for you? Just please tell me it's not more bulk-buy orders for duct tape.