Page 24 of I Hope This Finds You Well

Back at my desk, I assess my surroundings. The door to the conference room has closed, and no one’s at the watercooler. My heart is pounding against my ribs, my fingers tingling from where they pressed against the folder. This must be exactly what a spy feels like when committing espionage.

I carefully open the folder, keeping the cover propped to protect its contents from wandering eyes. There’s a simple grid listing our team’s names and job titles alongside any credentials and courses, and little symbols like x’s and check marks sit lifelessly on the page. Beneath it, there’s the usual corporate mumbo about desirable cuts to be made.

As I read through it, I realize what it is I’m looking at. They’re planning on folding certain roles together. Essentially, either Armin or Rhonda will be fired, and the one who remains will be promoted. Next to Rhonda’s name is a note: “potential to mandate early retirement, savings of $5–10k.”

This shouldn’t do anything to me. How many times have I silently cursed Rhonda out for not just retiring already? But when I glance her way and see her shuffling through her ancient Rolodex yet again, I wish the C-suite executive who designed this chart could see her brand-new purple tissue paper on the cubicle walls, or her Morale Booster emails she fills with actual clip art.

Then I find my own name, sitting just above Caitlin’s. Where do we fit into this master plan? Just like with Rhonda and Armin, there’s a mark indicating that our roles will be folded into one. The remaining employee’s title will be changed to “Document Lead,” whatever that means. Both our names have leadership course credit and years of working experience listed. But next to mine is a note that reads: “potential for dismissal with cause, should employee not pass course.”

I already knew this, but seeing it written there in Times New Roman sends a sharp bite through my ribs. I try to shake it off and focus on the silver lining this paper reaffirms: my dismissalisn’tguaranteed yet.

I close the folder and go back to my computer, heading to the Supershops employee portal. I search for the document lead position, andmotherfucker, the salary range would be a minimum 15 percent increase in pay. It would mean I could move to an apartment that doesn’t require me to dodge mousetraps every time I do laundry. I scan the credentials and I’m surprisingly qualified. I could actually get this, so long as I don’t fuck up the course and get fired, of course.

It’s dangerous to dream. But getting a new job title that sounds like ajobjob—something that means I’m actually progressing. I could even mention it in the aunty group chat and be rewarded with a heart-eyed mouse GIF. I could take Mom to dinner and offer to pay the check, and she would look at me without that curl in her lip for once. Best of all, Caitlin would be gone, and I could come to work every day without worrying about her making fun of or sabotaging me.

But there’s only one problem with this fantasy: they’d have to pick me over Caitlin. Let’s be real. Next to her name, there’s no disclaimer about potential dismissal with cause.

A reply from Cliff appears in Gregory’s inbox. I click it open, my fingers rattling with the beat of my computer fan.

Hi Gregory,

While that timeline is on the tighter end, I can make it work. I understand there was concern from HQ about my process, so I want to reiterate: I need to evaluate employee potential and personality for certain roles. I find the benefits of on-site evaluation and getting to know employees beyond their written reports far outweigh any other inconveniences these meetings may cause.

Also, as the head of the office, I trust that you’ll be able to provide a more comprehensive overview of the personnel and assist with suggestions one may not find on the page.

Best,

Clifford

And there it is. Cliff, the fucking doodler with his donut birthday gift who pretended not to be like other HR guys, colluding with Gregory, the guy who can’t even rotate PDFs so he instead twists his monitor. Of course these two will be deciding our fates. Typical.

I absently scroll Gregory’s email, judging his terrible grammar, offensive jokes, and boomer overuse of ellipses. Why do men like him always get so far? It should be impossible if the world were serious.

A new email at the top of his mailbox catches my eye because the subject line reads:“Is Papa Bear Hungry?”

I know it’s a bad idea even as I click it open, but it’s like I have some cursed reflex.

Papa Bear was so hungry for the honey pot last week. I’ll be sure to make him another helping tonight.

Leave work on time tonight.

Love,

Cutie Bear

I grab my coffee cup and hold it against my lips just to do something other than scream. The liquid makes its way down my throat with a burn. I wish I could pour it on my eyeballs. I spend several minutes staring blankly at my cubicle wall. Is there some sort of authority you call in situations like this to reset Earth from the beginning, just to stop the sequence of events that led to that email being written next time around?

Gregory’s office door clicks open and he barrels out, shaking me from my mental vortex of doom and back into this terrible reality. He passes my desk, still adjusting his dick, which is a form of harassment to us all, and I try my best not to look at him. He’s about to clear my area when he stops and turns abruptly toward me.

“Miss Smith, has your interpersonal training started?”

He says it loud enough for half the floor to hear, which means Caitlin and Larry, who are walking toward the pods, look my way—wide-eyed imbeciles.

“I have my first session today,” I mutter.

“That’s wonderful.” Gregory smiles like the proud Papa Bear he is.“We want you to do as well as possible. Soon this whole nonsense will be behind us.”

“Yes,” I reply, still staring straight ahead. I’ll never be able to look this man in the eye again.