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!”