NOAH
The fluorescent lights of the open-plan office hummed with a low-grade anxiety that usually set my teeth on edge, but as I rounded the corner to Mason's desk, the atmosphere shifted. Mason didn't just look up; he experienced a spiritual awakening.
He was slumped over a spreadsheet, the blue light of the monitor washing out his features until he looked like a weary ghost. Then, he smelled it. The scent of grease, salt, and hope wafted from the brown paper bag in my hand.
"Noah," he wheezed, his head snapping toward me. "Tell me that's what I think it is. Tell me you've brought salvation in a wrapper."
"Double cheeseburger, extra pickles, and the fries they definitely didn't cook twice," I said, setting the bag down on a stack of ignored memos.
Mason didn't use words. He made a sound, a low, guttural whimpering, and reached for the bag with both hands like a man grasping for a life raft.
