My computer pings.
Ivy
Morning
Me
Morning
Ivy
How’s life on the front line?
Me
I’ve had three teas and none of them were coffee
Ivy
Tragic
Me
Send help. Or biscuits.
From the outside, I look calm. Capable. Like I know exactly what I’m doing.
Inside, I’m counting the minutes between snacks and reminding myself that I am not allowed to stab anyone, including Caroline, even a little bit.
I adjust my headset, take a steadying breath, and brace myself as the phone finally rings.
Another call. Another task. Another small piece of someone else’s nonsense sliding neatly onto my desk.
“Dubois & Woods, good morning.”
I keep my voice light while whoever’s on the other end explains a problem that is definitely not mine.
Michael Douglas Woods strides past my desk like a man late for something extremely important, which is presumablyinforming a group of terrified interns that their paperclips are misaligned. His parents named him Michael Douglas. We call him MD because nobody wants to sound like they’re doing celebrity roll call at nine in the morning.
MD stops by the small coffee table opposite reception and flicks a glance at it.
“The magazines need to be straightened.”
Not a greeting. Not a question. A decree.
I finish the call, promise to pass something on, and hang up.
“Certainly, MD,” I say pleasantly.
That satisfies him. He gives a brief nod and continues down the corridor, contribution complete.
I wait until he’s out of sight.
Then I stand, walk around the reception desk, and cross the few steps to the seating area.
The magazines are already straight.
I straighten them anyway. Slowly. Deliberately. Edges aligned until they look like they’re awaiting inspection from the military.
