From responsibility, adulthood, sure. But right now Dot is running from the giant black bear chasing her.
Actually, it’s the new ergonomic desk chair Mr. Renfield wheels into her cubicle. Bear. Chair. Whatever. It rhymes.
Run!
She crashes down the mountainside, escaping to a glug-glugging spring. Triumphant, she collapses unto an anti-fatigue mat and exhaustedly scoops water with a paper cone. Something glistens on the streambed. She’s slipping off her wrist brace when snarls approach.
It looms over her, pneumatic seat adaptable for a petite woman.
It stares at her, Ultraleather head comfortably adjusted.
It reaches for her, betraying padded arms in neutral line with the keyboard.
Dot plunges her hand into the stream, retrieving a pair of bent-action arthritis-ease scissors.
She lunges.
“Miss Dash, what the hell?!” curses Renfield checking the furniture situation.
Dot rises, brushing Comfortfoam from her face, “The new chair takes some adjustment.”
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