Holland
The Maple Corporate Suites sign looked exactly like Banks promised—so boring it felt like camouflage. A rectangle of brushed metal, a font you forget while you’re reading it. The garage gate lifted after my fob beeped, and I slid into a numbered spot that already felt like it belonged to a person who doesn’t make scenes.
George stood at the security desk exactly where the packet said he would, a paperback stacked beside his elbow. He had the kind of face that looks like it’s been practicing neutrality for years, and eyes that missed nothing. A gray tuxedo cat curled on a folded sweatshirt under the counter lifted one paw, decided I was not a threat or a tuna can, and set it down again.
“Evening,” George said, as if it were any other day that ended in y. He glanced at my laminate
