This is a story about a man named Harold Crick and his wristwatch. Harold Crick was a man of infinite numbers, endless calculations, and remarkably few words. And his wristwatch said even less. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would brush each of his thirty-two teeth seventy-six times. Thirty-eight times back and forth, thirty-eight times up and down. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would tie his tie in a single Windsor knot instead of the double, thereby saving up to forty-three seconds. His wristwatch thought the single Windsor made his neck look fat, but said nothing. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would run at a rate of nearly 57 steps per block for six blocks, bearly catching de 817 Kronecker bus. His wristwatch would delight in the feeling of the crisp wind rushing over its face. And every weekday for twelve years, Harold would review seven point one three four tax files, as a senior auditor for the Internal Revenue Service, only taking a forty five point seven minute lunchbreak, and a four point three minute coffee break, timed precisely by his wristwatch. Beyond that, Harold lived a life of solitude. Harold would walk home alone. He would eat alone. And precisely eleven thirteen every night Harold would go to bed alone, placing his wristwatch to rest on the nightstand beside him. That was, of course, before Wednesday. On Wednesday, Harold's wristwatch, changed everything.
Stranger than Fiction (2006), Marc Foster.
