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“Mike glanced at the two computer towers lying half-autopsied on her kitchen table. One had a bag of chips in it, the top held shut with a binder clip. A stack of motherboards rested on the chair in Mylar bags. “Maid’s been on vacation, I see,” said Mike. “Yeah. She ran off with the guy who writes your jokes.” “Ouch.” “There’s a postcard from them here somewhere. Want me to look for that instead?” “No, no. Just the logs will be fine.” — Peter Clines
Mike glanced at the two computer towers lying half-autopsied on her kitchen table. One had a bag of chips in it, the top held shut with a binder clip. A stack of motherboards rested on the chair in Mylar bags.
“Maid’s been on vacation, I see,” said Mike.
“Yeah. She ran off with the guy who writes your jokes.”
“Ouch.”
“There’s a postcard from them here somewhere. Want me to look for that instead?”
“No, no. Just the logs will be fine.