I return through the dark corridor to collect my shoe farm. I forage for boxes, and I fortunately find one in the main conference room. I use my door “clicker” to be admitted to the inner sanctum for the last time. No one has moved or changed position since I left. They still sit like wax figures at the computer—eyes glued, guarding confidential company files. I gently arrange my shoes in the cardboard box like it’s a cradle. I have trouble breathing through the heavy silence. I start to panic!
“Where is my pink slip?” There’s absolutely no evidence that I’ve spent the past 12 months working 60 hour weeks. I type in my password on the computer. It’s frozen. I hear a familiar voice echo behind me “Let’s not drag this out!”