IT’S JUST BASEBALL Hazel Kipps
Sam’s eyes shot open. She was sitting in some sort of office with slightly off-white walls, peeling paint, spartan wooden furniture, and several banged-up filing cabinets. She was seated in front of a desk, behind which sat a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and small, round glasses that gave him an owlish sort of look. He was dressed in a pinstriped suit and a red tie, and was sorting a pile of papers in one of the desk drawers. Either he didn’t notice Sam, or he was ignoring her. “Where am I?” Sam asked, looking around in confusion. “Who are you?” The man looked up. “Ah! Hello, Samantha. My name is Greg, and I’ll be getting you started today. Here’s your bat.” He grabbed something from behind the desk, and then reached out, setting a wooden baseball bat down on the desk. “…What?” Sam frowned. “No, I—where am I? Last thing I remember, I was walking to work, and—the light was red, but that truck 50
