Page 13 of I Hope This Finds You Well

They keep going—email after email, none of them meant for me. I close out of my inbox and stare at the three pins on my cubicle wall.

Something is happening. Bcc’d in error this many times? A lot of freaky things would have to align for that to work.

Are they all in on it?

I click on Jared’s email again and try to hit reply. But all the emails are marked “read only.”

Then I see it. Directly beneath my main inbox folder, there’s a newone. I click on it, and it expands. Listed in alphabetical order are the names of everyone in the office. I click on one at random, and it’s as though I’m in their inbox. I can even see their sent items.

But whose account am I in? I click compose, and there’s a new option to expand in the “From” box. I can email fromeither Jolene Smith or Supershops Administration.

Oh my god.

Another email pops into my inbox. I hastily click to check it.

Then I vomit to death, resurrect myself, and vomit to death once more.

Because this one is to Gregory from who must be his wife—it’s an outside account. The words that pop out are “hard”and, curse it all, “cock.”

Right. His marriage still has spice—and that’s good, I suppose. I’ll just need to drink a nice glass of bleach to remedy the visuals I’m dealing with.

Deep breaths. He probably just has a chicken coop in his backyard. He’s having a hard time with the rooster. That’s all.

I click out of the email and briefly contemplate how my entire existence could have possibly led me to this.

Right. It’s time to talk to Cliff.

HR Stands for: Helpful Rarely

Cliff’s office is located on the fourth floor, down a remote hallway mostly used for storage and utility rooms that remain undisturbed and lifeless as I pass their droning hum. But then I catch the music—something acoustic and maybe whimsical—coming from what must be his office.

I reach his open doorway and spot his plaid-shirted back first. His arms are stretched behind his head as he leans back in his chair. He’s resting his actual feet up on the desk.

A rush of butterflies swoops through my chest. I’m reasonable and considerate enough to know you don’t justwalkupbehind people when they’re trapped at work, but Clifford is the only person to fix this situation—the one who messed things up in the first place.

I knock my knuckles against his open door becauseIstill have some etiquette.

“What’s up, Jolene?” he says, without even turning around.

“I... How did you know it was me?”

He lowers his legs, swiveling his chair to give me a half grin. “I was pretty sure you’d pop by today.”

It’s the way his expression is so relaxed and certain—it throws my footing. I square my shoulders before I speak. “Oh, so you knew about this? A fun little joke you cooked up with the other HR buddies at the old HR mill?”

“The wha—?” His forehead wrinkles and his hands drop to his lap.

I take another step into the room. Crossing the threshold is like being wrapped in a warm blanket. The shelves are filled with video game trinkets, ’90s movie posters overtake the walls, and there’s a sugary scent wafting toward me from an identical donut box to the one he left me. I stop in my tracks and narrow my eyes at him. “Didn’t you just start here?”

“Been here for six business days. Why?” But he follows my gaze to the windowsill of framed pictures and bobbleheads. His mouth twists into a smirk. “I like to settle. Birds need a nest.”

“I see that.”

How can he feel so comfortable being himself here? I shake the thought away and continue. “The changes—the IT thing you did to my computer.”

“Ah.” He pulls a pen from a Luigi mug and twists it in his hands. “It’ll take some getting used to, but don’t worry. We’ll get you back on track so the computer can be normal again. That’s my job.”

I can’t even with this. “What are you talking about? My emails are messed up. I’m seeing things I shouldn’t, and it’s a huge privacy breach.”