He can pack his desk.

It won’t take long.”

One of Eleanor’s attorneys followed me out of the glass room.

He was a narrow man in a gray suit, holding a legal pad against his chest like a hymnal.

At my cubicle, I pulled the cardboard box off the shelf.

Four years fit inside a rectangle that smelled like copy paper and old coffee.

The attorney stood at the entrance.

He didn’t offer a hand.