Deep Woods — Tom Clark

Shane blinked against the sun leveling through the window of the office, hovering above the lip of his cubicle. Outside, the Seattle skyline was silhouetted against the blue summer sky, and he could almost imagine the sound of cicadas drumming outside. These were called dog days, weren't they? He scratched it down on a small notepad on his desk to look up later, and turned back to his computer. He'd been put in charge of the McPherson accounts, the third person to take up the mantle in as many days; the accounts had become the proverbial albatross around the neck, an impossible job and an impossible client that had been shifting around the finance division like a bad cold. You never knew when you'd catch it, or for how long.