Page 79 of I Hope This Finds You Well

Larry straightens up, looking right at me. “Jolene, what areyoulaughing at?”

“I... nothing.” I shake my head, pushing my chair closer to my desk.

“You’re supposed to be on my team!” he spits. “We all see when Joy gives everyone but us a damn key chain from Mexico. Us office losers know who we are.” That word—another bullet knocking me into myself. “We can tell when we’re not wanted, right?”

I stay completely still, not daring to so much as flinch. I’m all too aware of Caitlin’s smirk, Rhonda’s jowls shaking with worry, and Armin’s wince. But worst of all, I can see Cliff from behind Larry’s shoulders. He’s approaching with that same look of concern in his eyes, like I’m broken.

Larry breaks my gaze to stare at my desk. There’s nothing here, save for Miley’s zebra. The one thing.

We both go for it at the same time, but he’s faster. He snatches it and holds it high. His forehead shines, and his clammy hands stick to the loose eyeballs.

“Drop it!” Cliff yells. He’s come to stand between Larry and me, getting in his face.

Larry snorts and tightens his red sausage fingers around it. Just before he manages to get it into his pants, and right when I’m deciding I really don’t love this toy enough to wrestle it back from Larry’s privates, Cliff manages to grab it free, holding it high out of his reach.

Larry closes his hand into a fist and swings at Cliff, who manages to pull back enough that it only clips the edge of his jaw. Still, it makes a sound, and everyone winces in unison. Larry loses his balance and tumbles to the ground. In an instant, he’s gone from office agitator to feeble old man groaning on the floor.

As he’s struggling to get up—face blue, pants still at his knees—the real police arrive to relieve Randal of his duties. They manage Larry out of the vicinity with quick efficiency. Still, on his way out, he manages to advise us that a good majority of us are cocksuckers.

Not a second after they round the corner, Stu calls, “Dibs on Larry’s chair! You all heard it.”

As everyone races around the floor to trade commentary about thewildness that just happened, Cliff comes to my desk and hands me back my zebra. As I take it, we lock eyes.

“That was one of the scariest moments. Are you okay?” he asks, searching my face.

“Yeah.” I nod, cupping the zebra gently. “And so is Mr. Barcode, thanks to your heroics.”

Cliff’s lips twitch. “You named it Mr. Barcode?”

“Just now. Figured he deserved a name after all he’s been through.”

Cliff huffs a laugh, then winces and rubs a palm against his jaw.

“Areyouokay?” I ask.

“Oh, this is nothing,” he says. Then he looks up at me through hooded lids. “Hey, uh... I know you’re starting a new gym routine—but maybe you can start tomorrow? Can I drive you home?”

When I lock eyes with him, he smiles, shy and hopeful. It centers me, like coming back home. “Okay,” I croak.

“Okay,” Cliff echoes. “Meet you in the parkade after work.”

He heads back into the hall, where the procession of Larry handlers just were. Stu is already wheeling Larry’s chair across the floor.

The energy in the room is a vibrant hum. Everyone is still whispering to each other, but the excitement that was previously peppering their voices has faded into insecurity. Larry’s display wasn’t just about him. Nobody is immune to thinking they might be wasting their only life on a place that can toss you out without a second thought. This will be a reminder to anyone who ever suspected a company gave a shit about them. Even though we all tease that we’ll quit, we know this company can more easily part with us.

I sit down at my desk and keep readjusting where Miley’s zebra goes. Somehow the dire blankness of the beige and grey metal brackets has become more draining to my soul. Shouldn’t I have wanted to personalize my desk before?

Larry’s words echo inside me:Don’t fear for me. Fear for you.

Cliff Hanger

As we drive down Fifth Street, Cliff keeps fiddling with the gears, radio, and AC in complete overkill, like he’s operating an airplane. But I can’t blame him for being nervous; last time we took this drive, our faces ended up smooshed together.

“So,” Cliff begins with a huff, breaking the silence, “the experts claim that letting someone go on a Monday leads to fewer incidents.”

“It’s good you did it today, then.”

A tiny chortle escapes from us both at the same time. Our eyes shift together, our equilibrium teasingly close to returning.