Tony sat at his desk feverishly awaiting a call from his daughter. In his cubicle, decorated in shades of gray, Tony had assigned a place for everything. Scissors, notepads, rulers, and an entire array of office supplies neatly hung from push pins in the corkboard. A system of filing trays was positioned immediately to his left, with labels hanging from the lip of each. Outgoing. Incoming. In Process. The bottom tray was left unlabeled because it was where he put anything that could not fit anywhere else. In his mind he called it the “Mish-Mosh Pot”.

His seat stood tall to offer support, but Tony was in a constant hunch over his keyboard, squinting his eyes into the computer screen. He kept his eyes focused on the spreadsheet he was updating, trying to distract himself from the clock in the bottom right corner of his screen. It read 3:17. His daughter Sonja said she would call around 3. And she knew that he despised tardiness.

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