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it with the top of my knee until I can get my arms around it. It’s heavy, and it just might weigh as much as my eight-year-old. Lugging that thing back to my desk, I ready myself to ask Keegan to point me toward the scanner/copier, but she’s yapping on her phone like she has all the time in the world, her legs kicked up over her desktop.
    I drop the box on my desk and wait for her to finish her call. A minute passes, then another, and her conversation shows no signs of slowing coming to a halt anytime soon. After a while, Keegan notices me staring and presses her phone against her chest.
    “Did you need something, Mary?” she asks.
    “Maren.” I clear my throat.
    “Excuse me?”
    “My name is Maren,” I say. She looks at me, clueless and doe-eyed. “I was going to ask where the scanner is.”
    She leans forward. “Oh, right, right. Down the hall and to the left. Fourth door. The department code is 48275.”
    “Could you write that down for me?” I ask, offering a frustrated smile.
    Keegan rips a neon pink Post-It from a pad on her desk and scribbles in haste, handing it off as if I’ve gravely troubled her.
    “Sorry about that, Tasha,” she says when she brings her phone back to her ear.
    “Is there a specific email address I should scan these documents to?” I interrupt.
    “General at Starfire Industries dot com,” she fires back, exhaling as if I’m inconveniencing her by not being psychic.
    “Thanks,” I say, but she’s back on her phone, chair spun and back to me. I don’t stick around another minute longer to listen to her discuss her weekend. Grabbing the heavy box off my desk, I haul it down the hall, four doors to the left, and get cracking.
    Two hours later, I’ve barely made a dent in the box and my stomach’s beginning to growl. I should’ve had a better breakfast, but I was more concerned with getting to my new job on time than whether or not that blueberry cereal bar was going to tide me over until lunch.
    I abandon the box and head back to the HR office, watching from the doorway as Keegan stares blankly at her computer screen.
    Clearing my throat, I wait for her to look up, but she’s too engrossed in whatever’s going on in front of her.
    “Keegan?” I say. “Is there a vending machine around here?”
    She jumps slightly, placing her hand on her heart. “Oh, God, Mary. You scared me.”
    “Maren,” I correct her, this time under my breath because I’m not sure she listens anyway.
    “Yeah, you’ll need to go up a floor. Take the elevator and then go right. Don’t go left. That’s the boss’ and bigwigs’ wing. Stay out of their way. Head honcho is completely unapproachable anyway.” Keegan rolls her eyes. “He’s thinks this company is a well-oiled Fortune 500 machine, and that he shouldn’t be bothered with the ‘little things.’” She sighs, twirling an ombre wave on her pointer finger. “He doesn’t have time for anyone but the programmers and marketing department. The rest of us are chopped liver. Apparently.”
    She lets the wavy tendril fall across her shoulder before turning back to her computer screen, and I move toward my bottom drawer, retrieving a five-dollar bill from my wallet.
    A few minutes later, I’m stepping off the elevator and onto the tenth floor. It’s darker up here. Quieter too. A myriad of hallways and office doors greet me and a polished silver reception desk rests straight ahead. Starfire Industries’ logo, a blazing bronze star, is mounted on the wall behind the desk. The receptionist glances up, but she’s on the phone. Making my way toward the break room, I find the vending machine and inhale a bag of crackers and an oatmeal cookie before heading back down.
    A sick, heavy feeling fills my stomach, equal parts dread and processed foods, and the thought of making a beeline for the parking lot and never looking back crosses my mind not once, but twice.
    I’m too qualified for this, and if it took me two hours to get through