I want to run. Instead, I say my goodbyes and thanks to Jeremiah, and drift outside of this working lounge room. I pass the security guards and one of them says, ‘Hope to see you more often, Miss…’
‘Pear.’ Weakly, I smile. Ms. Pear. What is wrong with me? ‘Thank you. Me too.’
Best not to offend an armed man. My first shift begins next week. I hurry down the hall.
‘Nineteenth,’ I mutter. ‘What is my life?’
Jeremiah would have to organize files that don’t exist and I could never show my face here again. But while my face is allowed here, I don’t explore. Mental exhaustion plagues me. I run my hands through my hair and on my throbbing temple. In the end, I retrace my steps and pick an elevator.
A man in a dark, retro suit joins me alongside a woman in a contemporary gown. ‘Newcomer?’
