Then I pressed them again, slower, as if the machine might reconsider.

Two hundred and six files in the active client folder.

Nine decks for Whitcombe alone.

All of it behind a password that no longer belonged to me.

My phone buzzed with an equipment return notice from a sender with no name.

A flattened cardboard box appeared over the wall of my cubicle.

Nina, the receptionist, whispered, though nobody was standing within thirty feet of us.

“From the supply closet.