obstacles, in particular the hordes of zombies who bumbled along with their heads buried in their phones, fearful of missing another “tweet”, a “like”, or, God forbid, a photo of what their “friends” ate for dinner the night before. He paused by the door, took a deep breath, and walked inside. * * * The receptionist, a young, lissom brunette by the name of Lizzie, thought of him as sartorially elegant and, with his ruffled hair and two days’ worth of stubble on his boyish,
