The heavy latch clicked, locking my father’s files, my tax returns and the plastic bin safely in the back of my car.

The downtown migration finished at twenty past six in the basement computer lab on Dearborn Street.

David closed his main monitoring window and wiped his wire-rimmed glasses on the end of his tie.

“Dinner’s on the company account tonight,” David said.

“There’s a steakhouse two blocks over.”

“I really just need to get home,” I said.

David checked his phone screen, then looked up at me.

“You’ve been staring at those log files for twelve hours straight.