Almost seven, I walked into Dean Morrison's office. Five minutes left on the clock.
A silence sat heavy, only the hum of lights cutting through. Down that empty hall, nobody around. My knuckles tapped his door - then a shake moved through my hands.
"Come in."
Frozen mid-tap, fingers hovering above wood grain, Dean Morrison looked through the wall like dreams stopped showing up. A hollow mug rested next to one still breathing wisps that twisted skyward. Light bled from a tilted laptop, painting his knuckles pale, angled so my eyes found only shadow where words should be.
Now sit down, Mr. Anderson. He pointed at the chair across from him. Maybe you'd like coffee?
Fine by me it doesn't work. There I stood, the paper hidden in my jacket, silent unless his voice came first.
He stood there staring. Awful, your appearance
"I didn't sleep."
