You take a look at your watch: 20 minutes down and only 340 left to go before midnight strikes and Agent Lowell frees you of your duties. As you step past the other agent’s desks you give each one a careful examination, attempting to form a profile of the others who share this space.
At the desk closest to the entry you see a picture of Jack Diggins. His smug grin shines through while rigid hands are placed perfectly on the shoulders of his middle child. You infer that he undoubtedly considers himself to be a man of structure and discipline. Taking a closer look at the picture on the desk you note to yourself, “His wife looks uneasy. I don’t blame her.”
Anderson might as well be a ghost. The completely barren desk shows no signs of activity and you suspect that they may be half a step out the door already, either heading for retirement or another career, you can’t tell which.
Lowell’s desk is a disaster zone. Stacks of styrofoam coffee cups litter the desktop along with folders, receipts, photographs, and who knows what else. Case files and pages of notes hang from the edges, some having spilled onto the floor. The lack of organization is astounding.
Closing a few filing cabinet drawers reveals the cold blank stare of black plastic eyes. Sitting on your assigned desk is a stuffed bear, placed upright against the wall. It seems old, and you wonder if it was left behind by the previous occupant or meant as some kind of welcoming gift. Sliding your briefcase under the desk you take a seat, and the chair immediately sinks to the lowest position. You attempt to raise it to a more comfortable height, but it’s useless. You doubt there’s any way you’ll be getting a new one, not in this place.
You toss the bear from hand to hand, contemplating what to do with yourself with no guidance or direction given. With a sudden push of determination you shove the bear into the bottom drawer of the desk and spin around, looking for a task. It might be overstepping your boundaries, but you’ve got some hours to kill so you begin to sort through the piles on Lowell’s desk. There are five folders, each with a set of three numbers written on the tabs.
Quickly, you realize that this may be a more difficult task than you thought. Maybe he’s got a reason and there’s some ingenious filing method that you’re unaware of, but you’re just not seeing it. Oh well, you’ve got plenty of time to figure out the system and in what order these folders should go.