20
Our footsteps echo as we walk along the grey-tiled corridor. This entire place is so bland, so devoid of colour, it makes me feel claustrophobic, like I’m heading down to the electric chair, or I’m about to be lobotomised in some 1950s nuthouse. A window would be nice, some music over the speaker, or even a few plants to brighten the place up.
Michael looks over his shoulder. “You guys all right? You look nervous.”
“We’re not nervous,” Erin points out. “It’s just weird being here.”
“Why is it weird?” he asks as we pass a room with two grey tables, a few chairs and a small fridge resting on the floor. Easily the most depressing break-room in history. “You’ve earned it. I can see a bright future with you two.”
“Thank you, sir.”
We push through a set of double doors, taking us onto a
