by Daniel Devine
I followed the signs along the tree-lined driveway to the visitors’ parking lot and pulled into one of the open spots. I beep-beeped my car alarm on, feeling a bit silly as I surveyed the expensive sports cars parked around me.
The cobblestone path leading from my car to the entrance passed through a small rest area featuring wrought iron benches and well-manicured flowerbeds. I paused for a moment to fight off a coughing spasm and made my way along the path. The silvery lobby doors resisted my first tug but swung open smoothly once I overcame their weight.
Just inside was a small sitting area, where black leather couches faced a huge flat-panel screen. A young, blonde receptionist—twenty-something and stunningly beautiful—sat behind a mahogany desk on the other side of the room.